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The hands of the Father

You could imagine them warm… But never quite clean. The hands of the Father. One must picture them weathered… Worn from serving the weak… Multiplying bread… Laying upon the sick… And calling sinners home. And I imagine His steps to be ordered… But His feet never polished. Tired. From fully fulfilling their functionality and quest. Drained from carrying the call placed before them. Bruised from importing and imparting from city to city. And yet we… In our naïveté ask to...
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