In His Hands by B. J. Hoff

Almost 24 years ago, Rob's first gift to me was the poem, "In His Hands," by B. J. Hoff on a stained glass item that folded in half. Recently, I discovered, it had cracked on one side and needs to be discarded because it could cut fingers or hands. I must confess that I am sad because I would love to give it to Christine as a keepsake.

In His Hands

The hands that made the world

And gave the sun and moon their light

Are the tiny hands of a baby

Born one cold December night.

The hands that still the wind

And tame the fury of the sea

Are the calloused hands of a carpenter

Who lived in poverty.

The hands that held the power

To break the binding chains of sin

Are the gentle hands that washed the feet

Of tired and dusty men.

The hands that cleansed the leper,

Healed the blind, and raised the dead

Are the praying hands of one who cried,

"Not my will but Thine instead."

The hands that shaped the universe

And flung the stars in space

Are the nail-pierced hands of a dying man

Who suffered in our place.

The hands of our creator,

Lord and King of Heaven above,

Are the Saviour's hands, forever

Reaching out to us with love.

B. J. Hoff

(graphic courtesy: www.heartlight.org)