Your precious hands that healed the sick,
by Janet Mary Zylstra
That clapped with joy and clasped in prayer,
Were pierced with nails against a cross -
For me, O lord, such pain You bare?
Your precious feet that walked so far
In love, not counting up the miles;
They too were pierced so blood would flow -
For me, O Lord, like this You died?
Your precious face, sweet to behold,
Not comely but beloved the same,
Was slapped, and punched, and spit-defiled -
For me, O Lord, You bore this shame?
Your precious head, deserving gold,
Instead was crowned with angry thorns
That gouged your temples and Your brow -
For me, O Lord, this crown You wore?
Your precious heart, so pure and true,
With my own sins was torn in pain;
O precious Christ, You suffered thus
So I eternal life could gain?