I have a tattoo.
I’ve had it for a long time,
Although you may not have noticed.
It is not hidden, though seldom seen.
It is not secret, yet rarely mentioned.
Not on my neck to be concealed.
Not on my chest to be covered.
Not on my back to be forgotten.
But on a place where I can daily remember.
Not of a site that I have visited.
Not of a triumph that I have prided.
Not of a deed that I have accomplished.
But of a person, most precious to my soul.
Behold, I have inscribed you on the palms of My hands.
I cannot act without remembering your fragile frame.
When I heal
When I touch
When I raise to life
When I write on a heart
Each time, I see you there
Upon My hand.
No one can snatch you out of My hand
For you are indelibly etched there.
Not with paint that disappears
Not with henna that dissolves.
Not with ink that dims.
But with a spike that pierced.
Whether My palms reach, extend, or spread
Grip, clinch or grasp
I see you in the nail print.
Look at Me.
See My hands and My feet?
I have you in My heart.
“(You) said, ‘The LORD has forsaken me,
And the Lord has forgotten me.’
‘Can a woman forget her nursing child
And have no compassion on the son of her womb?
Even these may forget, but I will not forget you.
Behold, I have inscribed you on the palms of My Hands
Your walls are continually before Me.’”
“And He said to them, ‘Why are you troubled, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? See My hands and My feet, that it is I Myself; touch Me and see’” (Luke 24:38-39).