The Print of a hand is a powerful sign, of memory, of work, of love, its a shrine. Printed, engraved, with life's fritty deeds, sometimes less worthy than a garden of weeds. With art and with work our hands are made true, to the sacrifice of one who's hands were pierced through. Its through those hands that we are made clean. He is a living well upon which we can lean. The sin drifts away on the current of love. We need not be ashamed, no need for a glove. So as i gaze at the print of my hand its memory of him, footprints in sand. The action of sin is like bands or like nails, but through his love theyre cut, Satan? he fails. So as you look close at the print of your hand, the savior is there, his atonement is grand! A hole almost there can hardly be seen. More whole now than ever before been.