My Weathered Hands

I am the Spirit's breath fashioned by Mother Mary's grace into a crucible of mortal clay As the sun set upon Judea underneath the the bliss of nocturnal shade I laid my heavy head upon pillows of stone And during the day's harsh sun I was set ablaze by Pharisaical scorn, as the lowly sheppard draped in coarse garb Forty days passed in the wilderness hunger was my only compatriot as I was taunted and tempted to eat soiled morsels of fruit During this deprivation, my feet were the only compass and my hands were my only guides Yet I stand today clutching the keys to the kingdom, the elixir of eternal life resting in the palms of my weathered hands