Zechariah 13:6 KJV
And one shall say unto him, What are these wounds in thine hands? Then he shall answer, Those with which I was wounded in the house of my friends.
In researching this verse one time, I was surprised to learn that the commentator I was reading did not think that this was a reference to Christ’s wounds received at Calvary. I cannot tell you for sure if it does or doesn’t, but it did open another line of thought to me.
A working man’s hands tell a story. A story written in shin and sinew. In scars and injuries, even missing digits. It’s a story of hard work, of long, toilsome hours, many of them in hazardous situations, doing the necessary things that, collectively, make the whole world function. Doing the work to earn a living, to provide a livelihood for a family. Building a home and a life. Maintaining it. Living it. Love in action. In the real world.
So I will paraphrase the last part of the scripture to say “Those with which I was wounded in (building and defending) the house of my (family).
The workaday world is a hazardous place for hands. There are hammers and saws, chisels and wrenches. There are briers and thorns, ropes and barded wire, screwdrivers and knives. There are gears, pulleys, hot pipes, solvents, grease, oil and detergent. Hands are right there, handling these things. And somehow, mostly, hands survive. But not unscathed. Life, for laboring hands, means wounds. Jesus was a carpenter. I think he knew about hand pain. Wounds heal, and sometimes they leave scars.
But these wounded hands are not ugly when their labor has been for love. When they have provided sustenance for a family out of love, they are actually beautiful. Even gnarled and scarred they are entirely suitable to lift a little girl onto a knee, to tousle a small boy’s hair, to caress a baby’s cheek. These same hands provide comfort when placed on a son’s shoulder. They somehow consecrate and empower when they enfold a daughter’s own slender, delicate hands. The child knows that the same hands that defend her world with awesome strength are always gentle when opened toward her. Those same hands that can pound in a fence post, can encircle her with tender love and still a sob with understanding and tenderness.
I use my hand, sometimes, for a place to write something for which I need a reminder. A name perhaps, or a phone number. It’s important, so I write it on the palm of my hand. If all I have is a fine point pen and I want it to stay a while, I run the pen over it time and again and it can hurt a little. And you already know what happens next. Because my hands are doing what hands do, it’s soon wore off or washed off or otherwise obscured.
Isaiah 49:16 KJV says
“Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands…” I imagine my name carved into Jesus’ palm, below the crucifixion wound. My name, written in the indelible “ink” of His own scar tissue, in the palm of His own hand. And He thinks about me every time He sees it there, maybe remembering the pain when it was carved there. That’s a picture of a Father’s love, the kind of Father love we can depend on. That’s the wounds in His hands. What are the wounds in your hands? Do they speak of love?
