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