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Mother's Hands by Janet Martin © 2009 Not because of gold or silver, Not because of jeweled bands, Not because they're soft and perfect, Do I love my mother's hands, But because these hands once held me Tenderly close to her breast, And because these hands would point me Down a path she knew was best Mother's hands so gladly labored, Mother's hands so seldom still, Never seeking her own favor, Giving always her free will, But the thing of greatest beauty As she tended to each care, Was her source of strength for duty, Mother's hands were hands of prayer Mother's hands would clap to praise me For a good deed I had done, Mother's hands were there to save me When my deeds would hurt someone, And my mother's hands would teach me What is right and what is good, Mother's hands would always reach me When no other hand ere could Mother's hands, so full of power When her load was hard to bear, Even in life's darkest hour Mother's hands would fold in prayer, Oh, no matter where I travel, Or how great the sights or grand, There is none to make me marvel Like my mother's praying hands Praying hands can reach her children When they're oh, so far away, Mother knows that God will reach them As she folds her hands to pray, Gracious Father, up in Heaven, Bless each mother everywhere, In each country, tribe or nation, Bless the hands, the hands of prayer |
This poem may be use within Christian ministries for any non-profit purpose without requesting permission.