THIS IS THY HAND
This is the hand of God, my God
This, the Word that touches me;
His glory makes me tremble--
His sword-- it cuts, and frees.
For this hopeless heart was broken
Like a clod of dirt-- to receive--
The seed he planted with his own hand
The word of life: conceived.
Yea, it was the hand of God, my God
That touched me when I cried in the night
The potter's vessel, broken-- dead--
Filled with holy light.
And he who bought this filthy clod
He rides upon the clouds!
He fills mine eye with light and grace
And rends death's useless shrouds!
So-- you ask me why I love him...?
But how is it that you can't see...?
His hand was pierced, his gracious hand
That hand, it bled for me.
Oh my God, have mercy
Oh, let the proud concede thy power,
Before the dismal night consumes them all
In some stupid, bitter hour--
For it is your hand that conquers all--
It is your hand that breaks--
The bonds of Hell and death and sin
(And the dirty heart that aches)
To bring forth light in darkness;
To cut the mortal bands;
Captives freed and captors crushed--
By thy hand, thy glorious hand!
~sister Abby Elizabeth