I Love you all over, Except

I have mentioned to you before the little Indian girl of six years old who once stayed for a time in my home. This child would often say to me in broken English, "I lub you all over, but not your `Mootash,' that
tiddles me when I kiss oo." This always brought a smile to those who heard her. It used to remind me of a story which I read somewhere. A little child was being nursed by her mother, when presently the little girl said: "Mummie, I love you all over except your hands." The mother looked down at her hands and saw, as she often had before, that her poor hands were very much scarred and disfigured, and by no means nice to look at.

"Shall I tell you the story about my hands?" said the mother. "Yes, please," the girl quickly replied. "Well, some years ago when you were quite little, I awoke in the middle of the night and noticed a smell of something burning. Alarmed, I dashed out of bed and ran into your room, which was next to my own, and found that your little cot was on fire. Not thinking of myself, but of you, I beat the flames out with my hands, and burnt t hem badly; and that is why they are so disfigured and ugly now."

The child listened very quietly until her mother had finished the story, and then with tears in her eyes, she flung her arms round mother's neck and said: "Mummie, I love you all over, but I love your hands best of all."

When we look at pictures of Jesus on the Cross, we do not perhaps like to look at the wounds in His hands, feet, and side; but when we remember that He was wounded for our transgressions, and suffered there t hat we might be saved, and so have peace, joy, and everlasting life, surely we say: "My Jesus I love You all over, but I love Your wounds best of all. You were wounded for me."