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,

More beautiful to me

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!

Though heart were weary and sad,

These patient hands kept toiling on

That 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 work

On hand, and heart, and brow.

Alas! alas! the wearing time,

And the sad, sad day to me,

When 'neath the daisies, out of sight,

These hands will folded be

But O, beyond this shadowy damp,

Where all is bright and fair

I know full well these dear old hands

Will palms of victory bear;

Where crystal streams, thro' endless years,

Flow over golden sands

And where the old grow young again,

I'll clasp my mother's hands.

-Anonymous

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY MAMA!