He Touched My Hands

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Washington, D. C. · Dec 15, 1904

He Touched My Hands

My hands were filled with many things, Which I did precious hold, As any treasure of a king's Silver, or gems, or gold, The Master came, and touched my hands; The scars were in his own. And at his feet my treasures sweet Fell shattered one by one; “I must have empty hands,” said he, “Wherewith to work my works through thee.”

My hands were stained with marks of toil, Defiled with dust of earth, And I my work did oftimes soil, And render little worth. The Master came, and touched my hands, And crimson were his own. And when, amazed, on mine I gazed, Lo, every stain was gone. “I must have cleansed hands,” said he, “Wherewith to work my works through thee.”

My hands were growing feverish, And cumbered with much care, Trembling with haste and eagerness, Nor folded oft in prayer. The Master came, and touched my hands, With healing in his own, And calm and still to do his will, They grew, the fever gone. “I must have quiet hands,” said he, “Wherewith to work my work through thee.”

My hands were strong in fancied strength, But not in power divine, And bold to take up tasks at length, That were not his, but mine. The Master came, and touched my hands, And might was in his own; But mine, since then, have powerless been, Save his were laid thereon. “And it is only thus,” said he, “That I can work my works through thee.”

— Selected.