I’d spent the sermon dwelling on hands:
the disciples’—plucking grains on the Sabbath
for their grumbling stomachs; David’s—
cited by Jesus in their defense, taking
the holy bread for his hungering soldiers;
that man’s—the withered one, especially,
which Jesus told him to stretch out and
see restored when encountered next
in the synagogue; others’—mangled
on a farm or in a factory; my own—held up
so all could see the fixed finger (which
will not flatten) that little kids ask me about;
Jesus’—punctured by nails to hold him
to wood for a grueling death, later touched
by Thomas when restored to life; our own—
which would soon reach out for his bread
of life while kneeling at the altar.
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