A Touch

by Gayle P. Lee

His children planted on the earth

With arms for burdens not their own,

And slithering venom given birth

To raise the hands that cast the stone.

Great fingers touching sight to eyes,

Hands to work the wood

To which they would be nailed.

Hands washed of his blood.

O, cunning one, to separate

The palms of saintly arm

To teach the hands to emulate

A blackness bent on harm.

I wondered at a way to slap

The sliding serpent down,

Cause lightning and a thunderclap,

Restore both throne and crown.

To find a power greater far

The foe cannot withstand.

When I unclenched my fists, I saw:

I held it in my hands.