"Jesus knowing that the Father had given all things
into his hands, . . .
He riseth from supper, and laid aside his garments;
And took a towel, and girded himself.
After that he poureth water into a basin,
And began to wash the disciples' feet,
And to wipe them with the towel wherewith he was girded." John 13:3-5
The hands, which,
Strong from working rough wood smooth,
Cradled and blessed infants,
Cracked cords to God's glory,
Cleansed a leper, with just one touch,
Healed multitudes,
And returned
Two sisters' brother,
A widow's only son,
And a twelve-year-old daughter, when he
"took her by the hand,
and called, saying,
Maid, arise." Luke 8:54
Then, in the cold-night garden,
Sweat (did it sting his eyes?)
Falling like great drops of blood to the ground,
Were the hands folded in prayer,
Or stretched up to heaven in eternal submission?
In the same garden was that ever-merciful hand of forgiveness,
Reaching out to heal a severed ear which,
Accustomed to barked-out commands,
Perhaps had never felt so divine a touch.
