WordsOut poems by Godfrey Rust · collection Incarnate  ← → · home

In his hands

like strings bent

in a guitarist’s hands,

clothes wrung out

in a washerwoman’s hands,

clay pummelled

in a potter’s hands, 

or nails hammered

by a carpenter’s hands,

we kneel and take
the piece of flesh,
the cup of blood,
the whole god
in our hands.