His hands reach out, out of the boat to grab the lost soul in the midst of a storm.
“Be not afraid.”
His hands press over the eyes of the leper.
“You are healed.”
His hands grasp gently onto the Bread of Life that has become His very self.
“This is my Body.”
His hands wipe the blood dripping from His head- He is immersed in deep prayer, grave agony.
His hands are pierced with unbearable pain- right through a nerve, right through a vein.
His hands are weighed down, weighed down by my sin.
He falls- again, and again.
His hands are weighed down by the Cross that should be mine, but became His.
He is raised in mockery and the earth quakes.
Christ’s pain goes away, but the holes on His hands and feet still remain.
I see Him again. His hands on the Holy Bread.
The Supper of the Lamb. The world’s greatest gift that comes directly from Him.
Rays of healing penetrate from His hand. “Your faith has saved you,” He says.
From bleeding and pain to an out pouring of Grace. The hands of the Lord are upon me.
“His hands are weighed down by the Cross that should be mine, but became His.”
“Can I be your hands, O Lord?” I say.
“Are you ready to take on the same pain?” He states.
“Are you ready to drink of the cup that I once drank?”
O Lord, give me Your hands. May my hands shed grace to every face that I may face.
Give me withered, wounded hands.
Give me hands with the trace of selfless service.
These hands were made to wipe the tear of the abandoned.
These hands were meant to carry the neglected.
These hands were made to put food on plates for those who haven’t got any.
These hands were made to embrace the lonely and far off.
These hands were made to pick up a mess.
These hands were made to press-
press upon the Beads of Blessed Mother that brought me to You.
In each heavenly exchange You remind me that these hands were made.
These hands were made for You, O Lord
These hands were made to serve.
These hands. My life. My everything
Everything is Yours.