A Pair of Hands Can Tell a Story [A Poem]

I look at these hands and say
they tell a story.
More so I wonder,
Do they tell my story?
Do these hands recite the story
of my heart?
Or do they recite a fiction
that really isn't mine?
Are these markings
from what I love doing?
Are these creases, occasional scars or bends
from following my calling?
I hear the melody in the air
and run my fingers across the keys,
across the sheets,
across the strings,
across the air,
a heart ready to create,
a pair of hands ready to make
something worth knowing,
something worth hearing.
Something my heart is foretelling.
His hands had cuts and a hole in each palm
yet he layed hands on, healing thousands
and was told he was wrong
for doing it, but he kept going, going without stopping
because he knew it was his job, his heart,
his calling
to known and be made known
his father's heart; voice.

I desire my hands to recite
my calling
to make music, to write of freedom,
to tell the story of the one I live for,
to lay hands on the sick and pray that they recover
to tread the journey of life, to find and discover
to use for what's good, to do what's right,
to do what I'm called to
to follow my dream,
to follow his dream.

[9/10/11]