MY MOTHER’S HANDS

My mother’s hands, now wrinkled with age,
Have served us all so well;
They’ve carried wood and gathered eggs
More times than I can tell.
They’ve washed our clothes in an old wash tub
Upon a scrubbing board,
And many times they've been clasped in prayer,
Giving thanks unto the Lord.
They’ve changed our diapers and mended rents,
For small boys are hard on clothes;
They’ve often soothed a fevered brow
And wiped many a runny nose.
The bread they've made would fill a ship,
Not to mention the cakes and pies,
And for all the years I can remember
Those hands served her as eyes.
They could locate things, with seeming ease,
That our Dad just could not find,
And to watch them knit stitch after stitch,
You wouldn't know my Mom was blind.
Yes. My mother’s hands have blessed us all
And served us through the years;
They’ve shaped and moulded us, each one,
And, yes, often dried our tears.
God has greatly blessed this family
And I want you to understand
That I thank Him for my mother
And for my mother’s hands.

a. franklin staples

February 10, 1991
Copyright © 1991 by Allison F. Staples

This poem was written in honour of my mother, Teresa Pauline (Crouse) Staples, on the occasion of her 80th Birthday (February 11, 1991)