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His Hands on my Shoulders

Hopefully in time for Easter...

They were like no other: The gentle touch; the soft, comforting presence.

They rested on my shoulders

Only for a moment. But they felt like

They were there for a lifetime.

For those few moments they were there,

I felt a comfort long forgotten by

Many like me, many without a father,

Without the father they know and love.

I grasped those roughened hands-

So large yet so loving- with both of my own-

So small and tender beside them.

Was I to know that I was only a character?

Was I to remember it was only a play?

He was there, the Lord, Christ, my savior.

He rested his hands on my shoulders,

And my heart was touched. My soul felt

Hurt it could not be forever. The dream

Only lasts so long before it passes away.

They slide slowly out of my hands. And then

They are gone. I can only recall what they

Were like. Those gentle hands. Those loving

Hands. Nothing alike. Nothing more loving.

I draw my hands to my heart. Though I

May look as though I am John the Beloved

Disciple, I am no better than Judas

Iscariot in my own heart. Forgive me Lord.

Forgive me for foolishly asking if it was

Me. Forgive me because I know I am one

Of your betrayers. Because he had

His hands on my shoulders.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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