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The little hands reach out to the new world.
The gentle mother softly touches the tiny fingers.
A soft sound issues from the baby, And the mother replies: “I love you."
The hands grow as time quickly passes.
They learn to handle the wood and tools of a carpenter.
They are kind hands, helpful hands.
The years have sped by so quickly.
The hands reach out and gently touch the mother.
"I must begin my journey. That is my purpose."
She places her hands upon His strong arms.
“I understand," she whispers, 'may God go with you."
From the Jordan River, the hands lift heavenward.
The strong voice sounds clearly, "I love you, my Father."
Over the coming years, the hands reach out to humanity.
They touch the hurt, the diseased, the unloved.
They bring healing, strength, joy, encouragement.
They cause no pain, they are gentle and kind.
The hands are bound by the betrayal of a friend.
They perform no miracle now, they are subdued.
Taken to the enemy's judgment hall,
They are lashed to a whipping post.
They strain against the thongs as love is repaid with anger.
The feet falter and stumble.
The hands grip the rugged beam.
The walk is long and the arms ache.
The hands seem powerless now.
The enemy seems to win.
The journey is completed.
Those gentle hands are roughly thrown against the beam.
The nail is placed, the hammer raised!
There is a soft gasp as the hands of love are pierced.
They are raised toward heaven, but not in praise.
The lifeless hands are released from the beam.
The body is lowered into the arms of the sobbing mother.
Gently wrapped, it is placed in a borrowed tomb.
The day is dark, love seems gone, hope is lost.
Hallelujah! Greet the brand new morn! Love has won, not lost!
"Come to me" is the cry of His heart,
As He stands today with outstretched arms.
And the price of love is seen in His gentle hands!
—Rev. James E. Blubaugh—Easter 1988