Saturday, July 25, 2009

Mother's Hands

Mother's Hands
by Janet Martin © 2009

Not because of gold or silver,
Not because of jeweled bands,
Not because they're soft and perfect,
Do I love my mother's hands,
But because these hands once held me
Tenderly close to her breast,
And because these hands would point me
Down a path she knew was best

Mother's hands so gladly labored,
Mother's hands so seldom still,
Never seeking her own favor,
Giving always her free will,
But the thing of greatest beauty
As she tended to each care,
Was her source of strength for duty,
Mother's hands were hands of prayer

Mother's hands would clap to praise me
For a good deed I had done,
Mother's hands were there to save me
When my deeds would hurt someone,
And my mother's hands would teach me
What is right and what is good,
Mother's hands would always reach me
When no other hand ere could

Mother's hands, so full of power
When her load was hard to bear,
Even in life's darkest hour
Mother's hands would fold in prayer,
Oh, no matter where I travel,
Or how great the sights or grand,
There is none to make me marvel
Like my mother's praying hands

Praying hands can reach her children
When they're oh, so far away,
Mother knows that God will reach them
As she folds her hands to pray,
Gracious Father, up in Heaven,
Bless each mother everywhere,
In each country, tribe or nation,
Bless the hands, the hands of prayer
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1 comment:

  1. Sheila (bookjourney)July 26, 2009 at 9:14 PM

    This is such a great poem. It makes me tear up.