MY HANDS
M y hands were growing feverish and cumbered with much care! Trembling with haste and eagerness, nor folded oft in prayer. The Master came and touched my hands (with healing in His own), And calm and still to do His will they grew . . . the fever gone. " I must have quiet hands," said He, "Wherewith to work M y works for Me." M y hands were strong in fancied strength, but not in power divine, And bold to take up tasks at length, that were not His but mine. The Master came and touched my hands (and might was in His own), But mine since then have powerless been, save His are laid thereon. "A n d it is only thus," said He, "that I can work M y works through thee."
M y hands were heaped with many things that I did precious hold, As any treasure of a king's . . . silver, or gems, or gold. And at His feet my treasures sweet, fell shattered, one by one. " I must have empty hands," said He, "Wherewith to work M y works through thee." M y hands were stained with marks of toil, defiled with dust of earth; And I my work did oft-times soil and render little worth. The Master came and touched my hands (and crimson were His own), But when, amazed, on mine I gazed, Lo! every stain was gone. "I must have cleansed hands," said He, "Wherewith to work M y works through thee."
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