Measuring

By Johnnie Ratliff Gilliland

Today

You pressed your little hand

Against mine.

“I want to see,” you said,

“How much I have to grow

Before I’m like you.”

Your eyes smiled into mine

And for an instant

I glimpsed the plan

Divine.

Tonight,

Kneeling at bedside,

(Engulfed by a spiritual tide)

I think of

His hands—

Hands that healed

The lame and raised

The dead,

Hands that calmed

The furious sea—

His hands,

Pierced and bleeding

For me.

Ah, little one,

You look to me

As you measure

And sew.

And I know that’s

The way it should be.

But kneeling here

In daylight dim,

I realize how much

I must grow

To be like

Him.