Holy hands

With an active imagination, I love to imagine Jesus in my mind when talking to Him, worshipping Him, when praying for others, or walking into a difficult situation. I usually cannot picture His face and He has not given me a clear vision of it.

But He often shows me His hands.

I love His hands; they are strong, they wove me together, they hold and envelop me, He dances with me and holds out his hands. And His hands have scars.

The beginningless, endless God who lives outside of time has a singular moment in time imprinted on His body. He gained something He did not have prior: thorns, torn flesh from being scourged, nails, a wound from a spear, through His body, cruelly gifted to Him by His own creation.

Scars that serve as a reminder of a moment in time when a God who has always been stepped into the river of time, space and matter. A God through whom all things came into existence allowed His lovely countenance, His holy body to accept blows, thorns, lashes and rugged nails to break through His skin.

What king would willingly allow himself be tortured for His subjects but Jesus? He is perfect, and yet His perfect, beautiful hands have scars, but not just any scars. Wounds and bruises that paid for our transgressions, our guilt and iniquities.

And by the stripes that wounded Him, we are healed and made whole.

John 20:27-28 TPT

Then, looking into Thomas’ eyes, he said, “Put your finger here in the wounds of my hands. Here—put your hand into my wounded side and see for yourself. Thomas, don’t give in to your doubts any longer, just believe!” Then the words spilled out of his heart—“You are my Lord, and you are my God!”