Thursday, December 2, 2010
"And she gave birth to her first-born son; and she wrapped Him in cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn."
With the eyes of my heart I look over the young girl's shoulder and watch as she begins to wrap the newborn baby in the cloths she had packed all those days ago before they began the long, arduous journey. She cradles His hand in her own, counting the tiny fingers once again - pressing them to her lips in a tender kiss.
The promised gift has come in the form of helpless babe.
The years slip swiftly by, and I see the questions and wonder in her eyes as she looks across the table at hands grown calloused from work at the carpenter's bench - hands that held tightly to hers not so very long ago.
I see tears fill her eyes as the day comes for Him to leave the childhood home and begin the work He has come to do. What pride and joy shine from those same eyes as she watches those hands reach out to heal and minister to the needs of those that follow after Him.
Just three short years later, and there is unbearable pain and anguish in her eyes as she looks at those precious hands splayed out on a wooden beam - pierced and bleeding. Hours later, did she once again tenderly cradle those hands as they prepared His body for burial?
Afterward they gathered together, those who had loved Him and were devastated by the loss. Was she there too? Did she look with eyes filled with fear when He suddenly appeared in their midst, or did those mother eyes recognize her child in this risen Lord? Did she hear Him say:
"See My hands and My feet, that it is I myself; touch me and see, for a spirit does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have."
Those precious hands, once so tiny and helpless, now forever scarred with the imprint of a love that cannot be measured. No longer the hands of her child, they were the hands of her Lord.
linking to Emily's imperfect prose today.
picture: photobucket florence000001