hands

I tried to gather all the pieces_ I picked each one and fixed them so perfectly. No one could say that I was broken once, unless they see my hands, lacerated by the splinters of my heart.

Hands. Cheeks. Eyes. Lips.Neck. Ears.Thighs.Heart. Soul.Ahh!the things I get tosavor you with.

Touch with your heart more than with your hands.

Loveis not leaning on each other, adjusting to fit a different size.Loveis simply two hands reached out in the darkness,saying; I__l be your light, if you__l be mine.

Everyone writes with hand, but very few can write with heart

THE NAKED HEARTFrom womb to tomb,There came and went -Only you.Poor or rich,You will die withOnly you.All the wealth you harvestIn the living,Will go to others when you are dead.But the true test of a lion of God -Is to keep giving with your own hands,Before you rest in your final bed.

We are defined as artists by the pull of our hearts, not the creation of our hands.

He puts us here to make an eternal difference.He puts us here to show everyone around us how much He loves them.He puts us here to be His hands and feet, His body and His heart.

As he farmed, hard labor left his hands callused, the sun bleached his hair, his face leathered, and his heart throbbed with music.

A poetess is not as selfishas you assume.After months of agonising over her marriage of words__he bride__nd spaces__he groom,she knows that as soonas she has penned the poem,it__ yours to consume.So, without giving it a think,she blows on the inkand the letters fly awaylike dandelions on a windy day,landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips.But more often than not,you can easily spotthem trodden and forgotten,becoming sodden and rotten.Yet, she will continue to makewhat__ others to takebecause selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.

Every time he raised his hands on her. He killed a prince from a fairy tale somewhere deep within her heart, brutally.

Why, I've been all over the world, I tell you, and fairly loafed and lolled in every conceivable sort of ease and luxury, but the Soul of me__he wild, restless, breathless, discontented soul of me__ever sat down before in all its life__ say, until my frightened hand cuddled into his broken one. I tell you I don't pretend to explain it, I don't pretend to account for it; all I know is__hat smothering there under all that horrible wreckage and everything__he instant my hand went home to his, the most absolute sense of serenity and contentment went over me.

My worth is not based on the __ork of my hands_ despite how feverishly I might work and how audaciously successful I might be. Rather, my worth is based exclusively on the astonishing fact that I am the __ork of God__ hands.

When there is a crisis, let your heart pray, but let your hands work.

To get rid of a spiritual problem, we need to pull it up by its spiritual root. To pull up roots, we're going to have to be willing to get our hands dirty, to make some sacrifices that provides long-term benefits instead of short-term, refinanced gains. God is willing to help us, to provide the tools we need to weed out those areas where our desire for money is spoiling our fruit of the Spirit.

The sky blue strengthens slowly, the dawn light rosy and pale the summer song of our romance begin to unveil...with every heart beat and the waves' breath...the time stood in harmony still. Your morning kiss my hands could feel...by your lips soft, so warm, so very gentle, nice and full of life...

Work. Good, honest work, whether it__ working with your hands to create an artwork, or manual labour, brings forth a sense of divinity at play. The only prerequisite is that whatever the work is, it is done sincerely and in congruence with the soul__ true origin and intent, then, without any effort, one experiences a flow, wherein one feels a part of the plan of the entire universe.

Where once I prayed for forgiveness from a father God who held up huge palms and said __hou shalt not,_ now I find peace with a sister god who takes my open hands in hers and says, __ou will.