Two holes, crimson, the blood flowing like wine
And they gently, slowly--
No, they don't touch mine.
But they wait
Held before the heavenly gate
To the One that will read the writing on those hands
That have sifted through sacred sands
And hoisted men from the grave--
But a single touch needed to save--
Then with a sideways glance at me
He gives a nod of victory
And offers me both of them.
For His Father shall not condemn
My hands in His.