I imagine the human hands of Jesus. I imagine them calloused and dry with a sandpaper-like grit from the severity of his work and the climate. They aren’t delicate, pristine hands. They aren’t manicured or soft. These hands bear witness to the difficulty of a day’s work. They are carpenter’s hands. They are strong and severe, capable and skilled. They are hardened and rough, yet impossibly capable of intricate and delicate craft. They are powerful and gentle, purposeful and loving. They cut and they craft and they mold and they make.