Isn’t it a bold thing to call these hands holy?
I’m lifting them up slowly
And they speak,
“Seldom we warrant such a title
We’re often idle, often vile.”
And I speak,
“Wash them with blood and sentences-
Purify by Word and sacrifice.”
The heart thinks,
How do I know what work is mine?
Does belief truly suffice?
Will you teach me this time?
Surrendering holy hands slowly-
Look left, look right,
And I remember
I’ve not the only
Hands with stories.