Gasping, rasping, grasping for a shred of life.
Your hands are calloused and broken,
Our nails are chipped from scraping at the ground.
We want to find a reason, we want to change ourselves.
But we’ve already done too much to change.
There is no hiding our filthy, black hands.
One, two, three, four, five-
Each finger is covered in an intricate web of experience.
Five reasons why your life is the way it is.
One finger to point the blame, but watch out for the three pointing back at you.
A thumb that can be turned up or down,
Depending on what your opinion is.
One finger that represents commitment when you put a golden band on it.
More often than not, it is left empty because of bitterness.
Palms that feel pain, but are also where you feel known.
Often it hides away in the form of a fist.
Anger builds as the veins bulge in our wrists.
We use our hands to create and destroy.
We have the power to change hearts through your art,
Or to end lives with your dirty black hands.
Will you lend a hand or will you return a stare?
Will you make your fingers into a gun, or will you try to care?
These hands were created for more,
But often they are left in my pockets.
I want to build my story through my palms,
Like how David picked up a pen to write the Psalms.
Or put down the sword to pick up his harp,
To give it all to God, his talents, his art.
There was once a carpenter with holes in His palms.
All the sandy material loves, they sifted right through His grip.
Never did He hold onto what made Him happy at the moment.
He mixed mud and fixed forsaken eyes.
He held the children to tell them their value and silence their cries.
He let them feel his calloused working hands.
The ones that reached through the waves to help Peter stand.
They are the ones that beckon us home.
Hold onto His hands and don’t let go.