Dirty Hands
by Fr. John P. Delaney, S.J
I am proud of my dirty hands. Yes, they are rough and knobby and calloused. And I'm proud of the dirt and the knobs and the callouses.
I didn't get them that way by playing bridge or drinking afternoon tea from dainty cups, or being the well-advertised Good Samaritan at the charity balls.
I got them that way by working with them. And I'm proud of the work and the dirt. Why shouldn't I feel proud of the work they do, these dirty hands of mine?
My hands are the hands of the plumbers, and the truck drivers, and the street cleaners. Of janitors and carpenters and road builders and construction workers. And poor peasants working the difficult soils in our farms.
They are not pretty hands. They are dirty and knobby and calloused.
But they are strong hands, hands that make so much of what the world must have or die.
Someday, I think, the world should go down on its knees and kiss all the dirty hands of the working world...as in the days long past, armored knights would kiss the hands of ladies fair.
The world has kissed such hands. The world will always kiss such hands.
Men and women put reverent lips to the hands of him who held the hammer and the chisel and the saw.
HIS were not pretty hands either when they chopped trees, and dragged rough lumber, and wielded the carpenter's tools.
They were working men's hands: strong, capable, proud hands. And they weren't pretty hands when the executioners got through with them.
They were torn clean through by ugly nails, and His blood was running from them, and the edges of the wounds were raw and swollen and dirty. And the joints were crooked. And the fingers were horribly bent in a mute appeal for love.
They weren't pretty hands then, but Oh God, they were BEAUTIFUL...those hands of the SAVIOUR.
And I am proud of my hands, too, dirty hands--like the HANDS OF MY SAVIOUR, the HANDS OF MY GOD!
And here's my own version of it :)
(though this might not be as good)
