Hands

Red-handed and guilty.

Hands

 

My hands should be coated in the blood of my guilt. I should look down on them and find the disgusting crimson fluid discoloring my flesh. But they are dry. Why are they dry? I’ve killed so many others, committed so many crimes, they should be dripping with scarlet evidence of my despicable sin. Why is it they appear clean? In fact, as I look, they are as bloodless on the inside as the outside. How can this be? Liquid life once filled my veins, where has it run to? What’s changed to make it leave? I can still move them, still use them, but I no longer feel as I once did. I can no longer feel the pain when I touch sharp things, no longer feel uncomfortable when I touch rough things. Once, my hands were warm and firm, and could tell what they were touching. Now, they are cold and skeletal, and I have no more feeling in them. When I touch something, my formerly reliable senses no longer warn me if I shouldn’t be touching it, they no longer notify me when whatever I am touching is comfortable and right. I am not the only one this way. There are many in this world whose hands have died, I notice. Looking around, I see that they handle both the deadly and the gentle without discretion. All feeling is lost to them, and their hands are bloodless now too, not alerting them to their sins. But how am I the same now? What did I do wrong? I must talk to my friend, father, Lord, councilor. I look above, where I know he always waits. I reach up, and begin to speak and praise as I always have. But I do not feel him hold the hands I have reached out to him. I pray harder, striving for his attention, but still, I feel nothing with my now bloodless hands. Have I lost him forever? No! No! What have I done?! I sink to my knees, my eyes tearing as I begin to realize what this means. I hide my face in my horrible hands, and weep endlessly for my God. My sadness at losing him is overwhelming, and I am soon lost to the world in my ocean of tears. Then, I feel his warm, gentle hand on my back. Shocked, and eager to see him once more, I yank my head up toward him. There, his loving face as always smiles down, but I see tears in his eyes, and in that moment, I understand what I have done. Handling so many lethal things, causing so much pain and death, I have worn the life from my hands, the blood of the lamb was driven away by my constant sin. And when it left my fingers, they deadened on the outside as well, and my perception of them changed. The blood of my sin disappeared, because when the blood left, so did my guilt. I cry my sadness and apology, my grief at what I have done crashing down into and out of my heart. Suddenly, my hands can feel my face, and the many tears running down it. I open my wet eyes, tears blurring my vision, and see my hands, dripping crimson once more. I’ve never been so happy to see blood on my hands. I raise them wholeheartedly to my Lord above, and feel him grasp them tightly, and understand that, despite my sin, he is overjoyed to have me back. And I am overjoyed to be back. When I have finally drained my reservoir of tears, and I am done speaking to my God, I return to my feet, feeling wetness on my hands as I wipe my tears away.

Author's Note

If you don't feel guilty for your crimes, then you're in even greater trouble.