A Poem

These hands now resting on the holy place, now lifted, now blessing; reaching to touch the untouchable. These hands cuffed in gold and silk, adorned as best art can achieve, have only late come in from garden. Only recently did they leave off the gathering of sticks and the trash which needed to be carried – dirty diapers and all. The ragged porch rails, which demanded paint to make up for eager children, stained them. The oily dishwater clung to them. These hands which have almost forgotten how to pick a tune, turned out now mostly for other purposes, had to be dressed and cleaned from the blue crabs in the bay, and the wet dog that feared them. They had to be made presentable. And they were. But nothing changes the fact that these hands now lighting upon the altar are not here because they were suitable but because God was not too high to touch them despite.

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