In England there was once a wealthy lady who always wore gloves; she was never seen without them. One day her little boy burst into her room and caught her by surprise. In confusion, she tried to hide her hands, but he had seen them. He shrank away in horror, for they were terribly scarred.
Quietly closing the door, the mother said, “Now, my dear, we are alone. You are old enough to hear about these scars, and maybe they will help you realize how very dear you are to me.
“When you were very little a fire broke out in our home. Your nursery was in a tower, and you were asleep there. The nurse fled for safety from the flames, leaving you to certain death.
“The stairway was too dangerous to climb with the flames and smoke, but there were old ivy branches clinging to the tower wall, and up these I climbed to the little window by your crib. I managed to crawl through and, taking you up, I swung you in a blanket over my shoulder.
“How I prayed for strength as I began to descend! The extra weight was almost more than I could bear, and the ivy was giving way under our weight. Clinging and sliding from branch to branch I reached the ground. The flesh was completely torn from my hands, but you were safe!”
The boy threw himself into his mother’s arms. Then taking her poor scarred hands in his own, he kissed them over and over again. He asked of her one favor: that when they were alone together she would not wear gloves. He wanted to keep before him what those hands had done for him. To him, they were beautiful hands.
Have you seen the nail-pierced hands of the Saviour? Have you realized that it was for you He bore the agony of those spikes? Can you now say, He is ALTOGETHER lovely?