I saw you hide your hands in line, behind that lady fair. I noticed too, hers soft and white immaculate from cure. But Ma, i say, its no disgrace to have workin` hands like you, and had she lived the life you have, she'd have hands just like it too.

But her hands have neve hauled in wood, or worked in God's good earth. They've never felt the bitter cold, or chopped ice for waitin` stock, they've never doctored sick ones, or dressed a horse's hock. They've never pulled a hip-locked calf, or packed water to the born. They've problaby never patched blue jeans, or had worn ol` socks to darn.

They've never touched a young'n or caressed a fevered head, with hands so gently folded, all night besides his bed. They've never scrubbed a kitchen floor, or done dishes everyday. They've never guided with those hands a child who's lost the way.

They've never made a christmas gift, shoped by a lovin` hand. They've never peeled apples, nor vegetables they've canned. They've never worn a blister, or had callusses to show, for all they've done for others, and the kindnees i know..

So you see, my dearest mother, yours are hands of love. And i bet the Lord will notice when he greets you from above.

♥ Tuesday, June 23, 2009