I often think about the hands that reached up to his mother from the manger. Those tiny, dimpled hands were perfectly formed by His Father before His birth. As He grew, those little boy hands undoubtedly got scuffed and bruised just like any other human boy. As He learned His earthly father’s trade, His hands would ache and become blistered after a day of shaping a piece of wood. When He later began His ministry, His hands touched people and they were healed. He placed His hands on them and evil spirits were drawn from them. When He entered the temple and saw how corrupt it had become, those same strong hands turned over the tables of those who had distorted His teachings and turned it into a den of thieves.
In Gethsemane, I can imagine His hands clasped tightly in prayer, pleading for mercy. His knuckles turned white as He prayed for His people – praying that this cup of death would pass from His lips. When the vigilante crowd appeared, under the direction of one of His own trusted disciples, Judas, He used His powerful hands to heal Malchus who had lost his ear by Peter’s sword. They then bound those healing hands and led Him to a court of frightened men who felt their church was in jeopardy because of this man.
His was led to the cross. His blood spattered hands carried His own instrument of death to Golgotha. The soldiers cut through His hands with long, iron spikes, pinning Him to the cross. His hands lifted up to God that day and He died there for you and me, but that wasn’t the end for my Savior. He rose again three days later and proved that He is God, but even then, He had to prove to His disciple, Thomas, that He indeed bore the scars of His bitter death.
Help us, Lord to lift our hands up to you in thanksgiving and prayer and be reminded of all that you did to lift us up to heaven with yours. Amen!