POETRY BY KATHY BOECHER©
A babe so soft, a child so sweet, lay on a bed of hay,
His mom looked at the dimpled hands and counted fingers at play.
His hands would grow with bruises and scuffs as children so often do.
He used them to craft with wood and nails and callouses He knew.
The hands would search the scriptures, though He wrote every phrase,
His hands would do miraculous deeds – like heal and calm and raise.
He touched the hearts of many, He healed their broken hearts, He held them close and tight.
The soldiers rammed the iron nails into His willing flesh. Each nerve burned for our plight.
He died upon that wooden cross, He suffered and He bled,
The grave would never hold Him. He conquered death instead.
When once again we see Him in glory and in might,
He’ll take our hands and hold them. For He has won our fight.
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