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,
Wash dust and dung from disciples’ feet.
Pigment and canvas don’t capture
The way they speak
When you talk,
These hands resurrected
They are contradiction,
Breaking bread and braiding whip,
Divine and human,
Reaching low and raising dead.
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