Healing Hands, a song

There are scars on my hands 

That I got from loving you

From holding things I shouldn't have

And touching what was better left alone

And the fingers don't hold quite as tight 

As once they used to do

Still there's iron in the sinews 

And a fire burning somewhere in the bones

But if you could take this wounded clay

Into your healing hands

And fold these tired fingers in your own

And press these bleeding palms

Against the wounds of the cross

And hold them there until they understand

How every fist raised for justice

Every tear wiped away

Every time they reached for heaven

You were making them into your healing hands

There is blood on my hands

That I had when I found you

From hurting when I shouldn't have

And doing things I know I didn't mean

And there's dirt in the fingerprints

From things I can't undo

But the cup of your palm

Is a fountain of blood to wash them clean

But if you could take this wounded clay

Into your healing hands

And fold these tired fingers in your own

And press these bleeding palms

Against the wounds of the cross

And hold them there until they understand

How every fist raised for justice

Every tear wiped away

Every time they reached for heaven

You were making them into your healing hands

So if you could take this wounded clay

Into your healing hands

And fold these tired fingers in your own

And press these bleeding palms

Against the wounds of the cross

And hold them there until they understand

How every fist raised for justice

Every tear wiped away

Every time they reached for heaven

You were making them into your healing hands

You were making them into your healing hands

You were making them into your healing hands