So broad they spread stars like glitter, these fingers mold and form, touch and create. Dipping into newly created soil, they form a shape much like their own, and who someday they will become.
Little fingers grasp and hold, open and close, reach and touch.
Perfect hands, so small and soft, are held close to a mother’s heart.
Tonight there is neither duty nor danger for these infant hands, so innocent and safe.
Calloused hands work the wood. Splinters pierce the fingers … fingers that grasp the hammer and reach to position a nail against the wood.
Strong and gentle, these fingers touch the arm of a child to bring him close, the eyes of a blind man to see his face, the skin of a leper to reverse the curse, the leg of the crippled to transform the deformed, the arm of the deranged to release the demon, the edge of a grave to bring back the dead.
Broken fingers laid against the wood feel the piercing of nails and the brunt of hatred.
No greater reach the world will ever know than these broken bleeding fingers holding nothing but grace.