Our Father Who...


He left me speechless;
standing there, facing me, hands outstretched,
on his palms, layered, ragged, dirty band-aids
half-way covering oozing, red infected holes
in painful, swollen, purpleblack,
club-like, useless hands.
Speechless, he quietly
holds them out for my inspection;
waits for me to heal them or
go do his job for him.
Nothing to say, says it all,
for both of us;
this silent, awkward moment,
praying for God to use me
as if I meant it,
as if He could.

Copyright (c) 2008 Gary Brown