Scars

Deep sigh. 

Silence.

Staring at nothingness. 

I leaned back in my desk chair while the reality settled in... 

“...He is pleading His wounds—‘My hands, my hands!’ ‘I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands.’”*

And all at once I closed my eyes and I could almost see Him... 

--See Him standing in the throne room, turning for just a moment from the painful sight of yet another failure, to face His Father.

With tears in His eyes, and tears in His voice--

“Abba--

 Abba, My hands...

Look at My hands!”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  

You and I know those beautiful hands were forever ruined saving us. A friend of mine once noted that they might be more than just perpetually scabbed. What if they are permanently disfigured? 

My hands tremble, and my eyes fill with tears, even as I type. 

But you know what moves me yet more?

It’s the second part. 

“I have graven thee...” 

It’s my name that is carved on His beautiful hands. Carved with a Roman nail.   

My name is a scar on His perfect Person. 

But He is not ashamed of me. 

Indeed not. Rather, He holds me up before His Father, and says “Look at My hands...”

And “swift angels are sent to minister to fallen man, to lift up and to sustain.”*

This is Love. 

Only love can call scars trophies. 

*{RH January 4, 1887, par. 15}