There it rests, a tiny hand, delicate, fragile and tight closed. Slowly like a flower bud, it unfolds and five fingers reach out and curl, in trust, around the mother’s finger. That hand so soft warm and so appealing - surely the hardest heart must melt at its touch?
Time passes. The hand becomes rough and hardened by toil. A hand that the poorest of us need not feel ashamed to reach out to, to clasp and into it place our hand.
And then, at the end, a hand pierced and wounded so that we may know that there is now no pain, no sorrow that can come to us, that has not been felt, endured and borne by Him, and yes borne so gladly and willingly for us