Our hands have been bloodied by the monster’s blow.
But one of these clenched fists are lowered from their skyward thrusts, once woe’s awful pleading is pent, to what helpful purpose are they then applied?
Do we wring them in useless anguish until the skin burns red and raw?
Do we beat them against earth and walls in empty anger, creating nothing more than ugly noise?
Do we wrap them around our heads in self-absorbed sorrow, to block our eyes from a heartless world?
Do they grip the armrests tightly as we watch the wheels of justice spinning slowly on our televisions, dreaming vengefully of using our hands to pull the switch that will send the monster away?
Do we push them roughly outward with a shrug, giving up all hope for mankind’s future, and relieving ourselves of all responsibility to use these hands to act?
No. For act we must.
These hands must design and build facilities to replace the senseless destruction.
These hands must grasp warmly the shoulders of those who are left behind, consoling and providing solace and hope.
These hands must pull up those souls who are struggling to get back on their feet.
And these hands must heal.
Not by spontaneous and miraculous curing, for we know better. But by slow, plodding, and relentless comforting and care.
Our healing hands should be touching softly the faces of children and parents who need their gentle touch more than anything else.
And these healing hands should be open, ready to seize whatever tool or task may await.
Give these hands time and give them strength, for we know the monster’s reach. And if he comes back, use these hands to prevent.
So that next time, they won’t need to heal.