My Mother’s Hands

“Such beautiful, beautiful hands,
They’re neither white nor small;
And you, I know, would scarcely think
That they were fair at all.
I’ve looked on hands whose form and hue
A sculptor’s dream might be;
Yet are these aged wrinkled hands
Most beautiful to me.
“Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
Though heart were weary and sad,
These patient hands kept toiling on,
That the children might be glad.
I almost weep, as looking back
To childhood’s distant day,
I think how these hands rested not
When mine were at their play.
“Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
They’re growing feeble now;
For time and pain have left their mark
On hand and heart and brow.
Alas! alas! the nearing time
And the sad, sad day to me,
When ‘neath the daisies, out of sight,
These hands will folded be.
“But oh, beyond this shadow-lamp,
Where all is bright and fair,
I know full well these dear old hands
Will palms of victory bear;
Where crystal streams, through endless years,
Flow over golden sands,
And where the old grow young again,
I’ll clasp my mother’s hands.”

C.H.E.