Hands

These hands are mine,
With touches to caress.
Sin has not corrupted them,
Or bathed them in idleness.

Scarred in their task,
Where young ones thrive.
Food lifted in the cup,
Has nourished growing lives.

Breath has been strengthened,
To beggar or saint.
An offering...so humble,
As they lay so faint.

These hands...have not received,
Sweet-smelling things.
Nor have they been adorned,
In ice-blue colored rings.

Blood they are...and bone,
And brown in their grasp.
These hands are but...Help-mates,
Each one in service...clasp.


E.P. 1908 - 1989