A PRIEST

That night, while breathing one last prayer,

He wrestled doubt and deep despair.

His heart was sinking with the sun;

He’d worked all day, got nothing done.

He raised both hands before his face,

And marveled at their homely grace.

He flexed each finger, stared, quite awed.

“These hands are mine, ‘though rough and flawed.

I know these hands; I know them well.

See? Here’s the scar from when I fell.

These hands of mine have done so much;

Their use, beyond mere hold or touch.

Almighty God, how can it be?

This sharing in such Mystery.”

The doubt and worry lost control;

Sweet understanding filled his soul.

“These hands of mine have held my Lord.

Touched my God, the Living Word.”

Bowing head, he closed his eyes.

His prayer, no longer weary sighs.

These calloused hands were coarse and bruised,

But they were hands that God had used.

Tears of grace streamed down his cheeks.

He hadn’t felt this way in weeks.

The awesome knowledge so intense,

Would probably never make much sense.

And yet he knew what he must do.

He needed sleep, he wasn’t through.

The Shepherd’s sheep had to be led.

The Father’s children must be fed.