She hid her hands as best she could, "They're ugly," she said, "And old, Once they were nice, when I was young, But that was long ago."   She sighed as she eyed her pathetic hands, The fingers, arthritic and bent, "They no longer do what I want them to, Their usefulness is spent."   Her fingers much too swollen now To wear her band of gold, And twisted veins of blue showed through A skin, now thin and old.   Her hands, trembling and unsteady, Cold, delicate, and frail Parchment-like and colorless, Wrinkled, creased, and pale.   Embarrassed by the marks on them, She kept them folded in her lap, Or tucked them snugly underneath, Her sweetly sleeping cat.   Oh, such vanity, sweet lady, I smiled and teased her from my heart, I would be proud to hold those hands, And soothe their hurting parts.   Do not try to hide them, Beneath your wrap or shawl, Nor clasp them close together, To seem indistinct and small.   Think of the things those hands have done, Throughout the many years, Each is a badge of honor now, Hold them with pride, my dear.   I think you do not know How beautiful they are, Your hands are signs of love, sweet soul, Every blemish, mark and scar.   Your hands make me think of other hands, More bruised than yours, my dear, That had gaping nail holes in their palms, And were stained with blood and tears.   Defaced, deformed, disfigured, A sign of love ... beyond description, Evidence of selflessness, God's love brought to full fruition.   Remember on the road He took, After He had risen, He showed His hands as living proof, Of God's love and God's decision.   So don't bemoan your aging hands, Just think about your Saviour's, Be proud of the resemblance, And know you have been favored.   Virginia (Ginny) Ellis Copyright February 2005