Hands Held Out: A Poem

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. 

When that time of Eucharist came,
I held out the chalice to each person
ready to drink in that way and was stunned
on seeing this man (never met) reach up
and put his half-a-hand on the base of the cup
to help him tip and sip the wine of salvation. 

Later, at the door, he said he understood
what I was getting at as he held it up.
I said I had seen and asked how.
A woodworking accident, he replied,
with a saw that didn’t stop.
However our hands, we live
by what Christ’s carpenter hands give.