In hands lie powers great and true,
to help or hurt, to make things new.
In hands the power to give or take,
to love, to harm, create or break.
Spread wealth to others, gather to you.
It was hands that rained the blows,
on pure man's back and tore his clothes.
Hands on the end of arms spread wide,
when on a cross in love he died.
With open hands his love he showed.
And when he rose again on high,
returning homeward to the sky,
a mission he gave to be his hands,
to heal and serve in all the lands.
His powers in our own hands lie.
To our human hands power he gives
for good or evil, while we live.
Within each man does dwell the choice,
on how his hands will speak their voice,
using them to condemn or to forgive.
Hands we can open in embrace,
hands wipe the tears from saddened face.
Hands given to another in act of love,
that takes the form of purest dove,
and shows to us his special grace.
Tis hands that raise the gifts on high,
where blood and body hidden lie.
Hands are laid upon the head,
recall the spirit from the dead,
and bring new life like morning sky.
Yet our hands can bring also pain,
power to destroy the crop and scatter grain.
With hands we can be agents of hate,
destroying good others create.
Hand are given to the evil and insane.
Decide then how your hands will be used,
for at life's end we do not draw, but only win or lose.
Victory's determined in part by hands.
Were they used to love or meet selfish demands?
Your hands will tell your life's story, so choose.
