The Hands of David

The Hands of David

Lying still, awake the night
Surveying all my life,
Thinking of my child and his,
Thinking of my wife.

Her porcelain hands I loved for years,
So fragile, so petite,
A pleasure would they meet in mine
Found walking down a street.

Their cool and slender feeling
Enveloped by my hold,
Did wet my senses full aware,
And warmth took place the cold.

Waiting but to join her now,
In paradise we’ll meet.
A promise bound by God on earth
With nail-pierced hands and feet.

My thoughts suspend in wonder met
Of hands that move about.
By hands I came into the world,
By Hands be taken out.

This symphony of days gone by
I’m conducting in my mind,
Hands waiving in the air
To the tempo of a time.

The greatest gift I think we have
Communing with the mind,
The hands that weave events in life
And fold them into time.

Of infant hands, my thoughts do stir
Emotions of that day,
We brought creation home with us,
This life o’er which we’d pray.

My soldier hands were calloused rough,
But proudly held the flag.
This country then but saved by war,
From fields, her men we’d drag.

A nurse’s touch, a doctor’s work,
Wrought God-like from their hands
Saved some, I know, from darkened gate,
Its threshold near they’d stand.

Impoverished hands they reach for help,
Lost, can’t find the way.
A desperate touch, from hungry souls,
Left nothing for to say.

The sculptor’s hands with dusted fines,
Shape meaning as to man.
His future resting on this orb,
Tethered by God’s plan.

The marble David three times me,
His hands an awesome thing.
Goliath’s fate is sealed in one,
His shoulder rests the sling.

A painter strokes pigmented light,
A ceiling’s face inspired.
The chapel shows the book of life,
The plight of mankind mired.

Creation’s touch finds the dirt
And turns it paper white.
The fingertips of Adam’s hand
Reach God’s eternal light.

A Carpenter’s hands nail the woe,
Of a cross born on his back,
And laden though, it seems I am,
My pain will leave no track.

My thoughts, my hands communing with,
This life has made me old.
The pain near gone, my hands now clean,
I see the streets of gold.

Lying on this edge of sleep
None left to give me life,
My dear son holds my hand. I leave.
I see my lovely wife.

The hands of time pass no more,
Eternity unfold,
To give him drink and fill his cup,
Refresh, O God, his soul.

Levi Hill — Copyright 2002

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