A Carpenter's Psalm

Here's a christmas-y poem-ish type thing that I wrote a long time ago as a christmas 'gift' for a wonderful friend.

Reflections from Manger Side

(A Carpenter’s Psalm)

By Kirk Holloway

Tonight I sit

On only slightly soiled hay

In the middle of a run-down stable

In a town that is mine

In title if not in deed

Next to a sleeping woman who is my wife

In name if not in body

My hands cradling an infant child Who is my Son

In name if not by birth

Tonight I stare

At my hands

Their flesh in such sharp contrast with that

Of this newborn Messiah

His hands

Are soft and ruddy

Loosely curled into chubby fists,

Tiny balls of fingers and flesh

So small, so pure and perfect

Each finger a minute masterpiece

Carved and crafted

By a hand with more skill

Than mine will ever

Hope to hold.

My hands

Are large

and clumsy holding this newborn child

my palms and fingers engulf his tiny form

awkwardly cradling this delicate infant with hands

more accustomed to the striking

of a hammer’s blow

and the tearing of a saw

My hands

Are calloused and hard

Worn to leather by the rigours of hammer, saw and nail

Each line, each fold of skin

Every minute valley lined with the sediment

Of sawdust, soil and sweat

If I were to look I could trace the scars

I know so well

Here from the saw

There from that first chiseling lesson…..

My hands

Are carpenter’s hands

meant for wrestling and refining

rough, splinter edged timbers into

simple furnishings

made perfect in form and beauty.

They are hands of strength

of knowledge

of craftsmanship

of precision and

perfection

……But why then,

do they feel

so weak…

so foolish…

so incapable…

so clumsy…

..so..

futile…….

I stare at the woman next to me,

My beloved Mary who lies sleeping

Exhausted from her nine-month ordeal

Her hands

A pair of folded wings to shelter her angelic face

From the rough hay that reaches to scrape and soil

The perfection of her cheek

A single strand of raven hair falls across her face

The beautiful brown oceans of her

Eyes hidden behind the mystery of olive skin

A smile flickers at the corner of her mouth

Like the light from a windblown lantern

She looks so peaceful now, so beautiful

And I wonder

Where has this peace come from?

Certainly not from my hands.

For the past nine months my

Hands have felt so

Feeble

So

useless

For all their strength they couldn’t keep her

Gentle, tender heart from breaking at

The cruel words of those who mocked this

“shameful woman”

Whose only crime was to yield herself to God

For all their knowledge and skill, my hands never

Found the way to comfort her in those times

Where her tears overflowed and she begged,

“Why me, Joseph? Why me?”

and I had nothing to say

my arms reaching to pull her to my breast

trying vainly to erase the

immeasurable distance

I felt between my heart and hers

so unable to help

so useless to fight all

the fears and doubts

and the sorrows of her soul.

Even now I sit here in this place,

This crowning insult in the mockery of

My weakness

Even here in the city of my ancestors

In this place where I could’ve been

Heralded as King

(if only we were free)

(if only I were someone that mattered)

Even here I find my weakness

Cripples me

Leaving me unable even

to find a room for

My tired and broken,

--- and oh, so precious ---

wife

I wonder if she saw the tears I flung from my cheek,

As we turned towards this stable?

I wonder if she heard the anger and frustration

Choke my voice as I tried to thank the

Innkeeper for his

“generous offer”?

I wonder if my love has ever reached her?

If in all those nights of stumbling, stammering words

That had no power

In all the times I tried to hold and shelter her

If she’s ever understood how much I …..

Love her

How

proud

I am of her

This fragile angel

So strong in faith, so courageous in trust,

So bold in love.

And I wonder why she is here at all

Why she’s stayed with me in all my

Failure……..

And I wonder why He is here, this tiny tyrant

This One who has overturned our hopes and dreams

And weakened us and brought us to this place

Of sacrifice

And I wonder why God,

Why if You are to send Your Son to this earth

Why choose my hands to hold and cradle Him?

Does the world need another carpenter-King?

Does the Son of God need me to teach His hands to hold the hammer and the nail?

Does the Son of God need my foolish, feeble, rough and soiled hands

To hold His wise, powerful, gentle and pure hands

And teach Him to be a man?

And I wonder if, God,

The wood I use understands why

My hands

Must cut and chisel it

That it may fit the pattern of my design?

Does the wood understand why

My hands

Must carve and plane it

That the natural beauty of its grain

May be exposed and accentuated?

Does it understand why

My hands

Must pierce its pure and perfect flesh

With the blinding pain of the cruel, cold nails?

Does it understand that without

My hands

Without the pain that I must bring it

Without its surrender to my will

That it could never be the

Masterpiece of beauty it was destined to become?

And so tonight I sit, God,

On only slightly soiled hay

Next to a sleeping woman who is my wife

In name if not in body

My hands cradling a Son who is mine

In name if not by birth

And I marvel at Your hands which

Suddenly

Perhaps

Look a little like my own

And I marvel at Your hands

That you would

Take my brokenness

And make it a thing of beauty

And I marvel at this woman’s hands

That reach to me,

To love me in my failure,

And so become

Gentle chisels

Used of You to cut away the stones of fear and shame

That imprison my heart

And I marvel at this child’s hands

So pure and perfect

So fragile and yet so strong

Strong enough to love this world

Strong enough to love my stubborn heart.

And I cannot help but wonder

If the only thing that makes this all make sense

Is the fact that He is here?

But yet I wonder….

If this Your Son is to save us from our sins, then

What pain must Your hands bring Him……. and what nails will His hands hold?