Why are you staring at your hands Grandma?
Why?
These hands, these hands now gnarled and old
Read of their palms the story unfold
When I was a babe and fed at the breast
These hands would grasp on giving no rest
I learned how to crawl, these hands led the way
And pulled myself up at the end of the day
These hands clasped on either side of her face
And gazed in her eyes – saw my mother’s grace
These hands were folded as I learned how to pray
Or raised to the heavens to praise Him each day
I held a boys hand as we walked down a street
And fancied just how it was we should meet
In school these hands turned pages from many books
Primped my hair in a mirror to see how I looked
My hands many poems in life I would write
Sometimes in early morning, or late at night
When my hands held my babies after giving birth
I felt the happiest mother on earth
Not too long I’ll lay dying seeking His grace
In the light these hands will hold Jesus’ face
Linda Pethke, Grand Chute
