The touch of His hands

My hands were filled with many things that I did precious hold,
As any treasure of a King’s……..Silver, or gems or gold.
The Master came and touched my hands ( the scars were in His own),
And at His feet my treasures sweet fell shattered one by one.
“I must have empty hands” said He,” Wherewith to work my works through thee.”
My 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 my works through thee.
My 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 my works for Me”.
My 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.
“And it is only thus”, said He. “ That I can work my works through thee.”