Hands

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.