MOTHERS HANDS
I looked at Mother’s hands one day,
Then I took her hands in mine;
Many thoughts then filled my heart,
Of what those hands had done through time.
Those hands are old and crippled now,
The years have taken their toll;
But in those old and crippled hands,
There is a story to be told.
“Mother, you’ve got pretty hands,” I said,
She said, “They’re old and crippled you see;”
I said, “Mother, You’re looking at what they are,
But I’m looking at what they have done for me.”
Those are the hands that held me close,
When I was just a babe;
Those are the hands that took care of me,
Feeding, clothing and bathing me day by day.
Those are the hands that doctored me,
Through colds, colic, fevered brows and all;
Those are the hands that picked me up,
Each and every time I would fall.
Those are the hands that comforted me,
When I cried, those hands dried my tears;
Those are the hands that corrected me,
To make me live right through the years.
Those are the hands that worked so hard,
Washing clothes, ironing and cooking meals;
Those hands washed dishes, made up the beds,
Scrubbed floors, cleaned windows and wiped up spills.
Those hands have gathered in wood and coal,
They have cooked on the old cook stove;
Those hands have held a threaded needle,
And patched a many a torn clothes.
Those hands have written letters and cards,
Whenever from home I was gone;
Those are the hands that hug me tight,
Every time I visit back home.
And as I look at dear mother’s hands,
There is something else I see;
Those are the hands that were held up to God,
Thousands of times in prayer for me.
Yes, Mother’s hands are old and crippled now,
And they are very weak and frail;
But those hands have worked a many a year,
They have done more than words can tell.
So, as I hold my mother’s hands in mine,
In my mind many thoughts pass through;
I kiss those hands, and look up to God,
Mother, I certainly thank the Lord for you.
I love you, Mother.
Written by Evangelist Frank Pittman