Work of art

Your hands,

I don’t think that I can get them right;

The carpentry worn creases and callouses,

The way they mold mud, restore sight.

These hands touch untouchables

Raise up the lowest,

Lift children,

Wash dust and dung from disciples’ feet.

Pigment and canvas don’t capture

The way they speak

When you talk,

Illustrating

Emphasizing

Shaping stories

Scratching dirt.

These hands resurrected

Challenge,

Confront.

They are contradiction,

Breaking bread and braiding whip,

Messiah pierced,

Divine and human,

Reaching low and raising dead.

Your hands,

They are a bent that draws me ever closer

Beckoning to paint your story,

A tale of royal line still best avowed

Through servant hands and bended knee.

Photo by Smoochi via Flickr Creative Commons License