My hands—how old they look now,
all aching joints and weak grasp;
fingers that stiffen after holding a pen.
The veins are prominent, a raised reminder
that life still moves within me.
Christ has no hands but yours, they say.
Lord, what would you have me do with these hands?
Shall I worship at your feet with fragrant oil,
weave a cloth, bake your bread?
Perhaps it is enough when my reassuring touch
is received by someone as a touch from you;
when my hands, clasped in prayer, pull
your canopy of grace over someone as a shield.