These hands.

Lately, words are difficult to come by, especially poetry.  So here is a bit of my thoughts, put in poetic form.

These hands.
They are worn, 
broken, 
beaten
from carrying the wages of a days labor
wrought out of my hopes and dreams 
rather than your plans.

These hands,
they carry the tears from years
of a thousand wimpers and wails.
They crawl through thistles and thorns, 
bristles and briars, 
bloodied from the pressure 
applied to my bleeding heart.
These hands
beat incessantly upon my chest
drowning out the pain I feel deep in my soul
like a part of me has been severed 
because I'm waiting.
Yes,
these hands are waiting for you to give me what I'm asking for. 
These hands have begged and pleaded, 
thumbs and forefingers pressed to my chest, 
palms together, difficult breaths;
Lord I've waited for you. 
I've planted the seeds,
tilled the soil, 
and watered and watered again.
Lord where are you? 
Because you're supposed to come through, 
because Lord you're supposed to rescue, 
because Lord you're supposed to renew
But I think I've trusted these hands more than I've trusted you. 
But wait.
Don't give up on me just yet.
I can bend my knees and bow my head. 
I can give you reverent Amens and Hallelujahs.
I can dance for you,
sing for you, 
even shout for you.  I will give for you,
love for you,
 or do anything for you!
Oh please Lord. 
Are you silent now too?
But in that silence, comes a whisper,
A rugged tale for the fervent listener
And in the midst of slight and sorrow
Gone are my wishes for tomorrow
And softly speaks with care so tender 
My dear,  all I desire is your surrnder.
So I gave up the aches 
placed upon my hands, 
and handmade dreams give way 
to infinite Kings and kingdoms.
And my soul finds rest 
in the beauty of your quiet.

On the altar of my heart
is the hardened masses,
of my will
masterfully masked as yours.

With hands emptied toward heaven,
Yet, I will praise you. 
Yet, I will praise you.
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