Dirty Hands
I’m proud of my dirty hands.
Yes, they are dirty. And they
are rough and knobby and calloused. And I’m proud of the dirt and the knobs and
the calluses. I didn’t get them that way
by playing bridge or drinking afternoon tea out of dainty cups, or playing the
well-advertised Good Samaritan at 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 plumbers, of truck drivers and street cleaners; of carpenters;
engineers, machinists and workers in steel. They are not pretty hands, they are
dirty and knobby and calloused. But they are strong hands, hands that make so
much that 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. I’m proud of my dirty hands. 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 saw and the plane. His weren’t pretty hands either when they
chopped trees, dragged rough lumber, and wielded carpenter’s tools. They were
workingman’s hands – strong, capable proud hands. And weren’t pretty hands when the
executioners got through them. They were
torn right clean through by ugly nails, and the blood was running from them,
and the edges of the wounds were raw and dirty and swollen; 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 Savior.
I’m proud of those dirty hands, hands of my Savior, hands of God. And I’m
proud of my hands too, dirty hands, like the hands of my Savior, the Hands of
my God!
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