Hands that flung stars into space, that created heaven and earth, all that is seen and unseen, all that is good.
Hands on the wood of the cross, nailed, staked, bruised, bleeding, crushed to death.
Hands crushing death itself, holding signed ancient prophecies fulfilled, rose on the third day.
Those hands have never stopped reaching out to ours. Hands that never slip away with weakened strength but have perfect endurance powered by perfect love.
If we no longer hold the hands of perfect love it is because we pulled our hands away, distracted by the glitter or tiredness or stabbings of life. Our own self determined control that keeps our hands busy elsewhere, held out in worship to the created rather than the creator.
His hand though always waits, itching patience to protectively glove our cold dirty hands. To take our repentant flesh palms and to envelope them with the security of the unending life giving, devotedly grace filled, unashamedly love spilling, God palm.
Behold the hand. Behold I AM.
Isaiah 46:4 NIV
Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you.
I have made you and I will carry you;
I will sustain you and I will rescue you.