The hand reached down to me, warm, years of compassion and wisdom written gently in the lines of the palm

As I reached to touch, barely grasping. there was yet another, just as warm

I lay there in my grave, choking on the worms feeding on my flesh

A decision was made in haste and I grasped the hand, the one that was thrust closer to me, the one that appeared in the dirt to pull me out…..

or so I thought

to what reason was I saved, so that my cold body could be moved to yet another grave, more remote, killing death as if death alone was not enough

In recovery, a moment of sensibility and sanity, clarity, I realized the hand I grasped in desperation was the dark hand of hell himself, the warmth I felt was my own blood covering his flesh

So I chanced to return to my grave, seek the hand of salvation. It was still there compassionate, caring and wise…..

And it was cold