Given, into hands of clay,

Roman hands fashioned by the

One Who sculpted these men,

men formed in wombs that were unaware their

fruit might pierce the Messiah.

Watch these hardened men,

frozen in memory like statues in still-life scenes,

scripted to the letter.

Watch them holding the garment of the

Christ Who could clothe them in better robes.

Watch them draped in darkness that covered the

land as they crucify the Light of the world.

Watch them hold nails that would break skin,

invade muscle,

affix the Holy One’s hands on

wood as blood trickles to cover our transgressions, our hate,

and the sin-stained hands that we would raise against Him.


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