A tiny baby reaches skyward
   for the stars so far away.
The hand that once hung them high
   now cannot touch them from the hay.

A young boy runs to mother
   having hammered his own thumb.
The hand that once created life
   was now wishing to be numb.

A man now, he stretches high,
   giving thanks and breaking bread.
His hands now feed the multitudes,
   heal the sick, and raise the dead.

A broken man, nailed to a cross,
   cannot reach to anyone.
The hands that set so many free
   were now pierced for everyone.

A risen Savior touches GOD,
   returning home to intercede.
The hands that once wore flesh and blood
   are now gloriously freed.

He reaches down to touch the world
   through people He atoned.
The hands that bring eternity
   are now your very own.

kw

(*reworked an older poem)

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