In the synagogue last Sabbath
Ari didn’t question, just put out
His gnarled and curling claw.

It was a dead hand, crushed,
Trapped between bricks of the furnace
Of his youth, rendered him useless,
His hand and his youth and his hope, withering away.

We had not even asked for the miracle,
Barely knew the man the pharisees watched.
But we saw their crookedness through His eyes
Even as Ari’s hand stretched out healed.

So we followed Him, saw the bent and broken
Made straight, bones set in the way of peace.
But they watched Him every day. And sprung their traps.