My hands are cold.
They have not another hand to hold.
They are becoming wrinkled and old.
With time’s passage.
Work-weary hands. Hands used to create. To write words to my King. To love. To heal. To serve.
To.
Sin.

My hands are cold.
They have not another hand to hold.
But the nail-scarred hand of the One who is unseen.
The One who heals me, loves me, restores, redeems.
The One who cups my face in His hands and says:
“With you, I am pleased.”
The One who takes my hand, aging with time,
And says:
“Even to your old age and gray hairs I am He who will sustain you and carry you.” (Is. 46:3-4, para.)

My hands are no longer cold.
No longer without a touch of love to fill them.
For my Redeemer who loves me is holding onto me.
He takes hold of my right hand and says: “Fear not.” (Is. 41:13)

I walk forward now in peace.
With hands no longer cold.
Within His grasp.