Her open hand extends
in eternal invitation.
And yet I hurry past
with a smile and a nod
too embarrassed and ashamed
of my own failures and insufficiencies
to meet her eyes or allow
my hand rest in hers.
And yet she never asks
me to justify myself
or to prove myself worthy
of her rest. She does not
seem to mind my unworthiness
or filthy rags (for I am both filthy
and unworthy).
And yet I rush past her every day
in efforts to appear busy
and worthy and whole. And
I dream of the day when
her open hand will be mine
by transaction or equation – on
account of my hard earned merit.
In quiet moments when
my heart and the world
are still
I know that this is all
foolishness. Her open
hand, extended in eternal
invitation, is all gift. Her
grace I cannot earn. Her rest
is a given rest. So take her hand
and rest.