Poem #17--Those Hands

Those Hands 

I fell upon the cold, stone ground, 

Pushed by hands unseen. 

My wrists and legs were tightly bound, 

My body filled with pain. 

Those hands, so filled with hate and spite, 

Had tied these binding knots. 

I tried to rise, but then, with fright, 

I found that I could not. 

For, while I was on the floor, 

Consumed by my own pain, 

Those hands did labor evermore, 

Clasping binding chains. 

Thus secured, I could not fight, 

Against those ruthless hands. 

They exposed my back, with skin of white, 

And then the wrath began. 

The crack. The crack. The screams of pain, 

The shredding of my skin, 

The crack. The crack. The screams in vain, 

Thus did the wrath begin. 

Crimson drops flew left and right, 

With each resounding crack. 

Rivers red cut through the white 

Of my searing, burning back. 

Those hands continued with sheer disdain, 

As ruthless, merciless beasts, 

And, in a moment of unbearable pain, 

I called on them to cease. 

Then, to my complete surprise, 

They stopped for cause unknown. 

I weakly opened bloodshot eyes; 

A light about me shown. 

Two other hands descended then, 

My limbs they did release, 

My burning wounds they then did cleanse. 

All pain began to cease. 

My eyes released their liquid awe, 

My lips, a grateful psalm. 

Then in those bloodstained hands I saw 

The piercings in the palm. 

"Oh, Lord," I said, with shaking voice, 

"Oh, Lord, where hast thou been?" 

"Waiting for you to make the choice 

To allow me to step in." 

"But Lord," I said, "Those wicked hands, 

That attacked me with such hate, 

Lord, I do not understand. 

Why didst thou choose to wait?" 

"My Son," He said, with caring voice, 

"My Son, this had to be. 

To you it is given to make the choice. 

Thou hast thine agency. 

Those hands that held thee captive, Son, 

That beat you unto death, 

To stop them, nothing could be done, 

'Till you, with dying breath, 

Called upon those hands to cease. 

You see, those hands unknown 

Were not the hands of thine enemies. 

Those hands... 

They were thine own. 

--Karl Southwick 

When faced with emotional problems or pain, stop beating yourself up. Learn what needs to be learned from it, and move on. Beating yourself up, feeling worthless or insignificant, none of that will help, in the long run. To find peace, to obtain joy, Stop beating yourself up. Get up. Brush yourself off, and move forward. Let God help, and do not reopen the wounds that have already been healed. 

Water has interesting magnifying properties. Might I suggest that in this there is a symbolism? When we cry, our eyes fill with tears. So, from time to time, our sorrows might have a purpose: to magnify our vision, to help us see our life in a new light and our own role and purpose in it. Obtaining that vision, the tears will be wiped away, and we will see the world through the eyes of joy. 

Food for thought.