My Hands

poem by: Elizabeth J White
Written on Apr 16, 2015

My hands or as leather, with deep lines and scars I give God the glory.
for within these rough and tattered hands there is a special story.

These hands, have worked with wood and in the cotton mills
the hands once held my little babies and weathered through the storms of life.
My left hand once wore a Golden band the day I became a wife

These hands have pulled weeds and hoed until they bled 
these hands have held my babies and patted their little heads.

These hands  carried heavy rocks to fill a road with holes
thes hands  have toted laundry to the line many time to hang up clothes.

These hands are still strong and always did their best
though tough as saddle leather they have passed every test.

Oh these hands are working hands , these hands have held little hands too
these hands have had their trials but stronger for them its true

So before you turn away from these old and tough, rough wrinkled hands
there is a story that came from glory it's mine, Understand?


Tags: hope,

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pat hoban commented:
why to me women are the superior sex.
A previous user commented:
Nice! The hands do tell a story of their own.Raise them up.


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