THESE OLD HANDS

THESE OLD HANDS


Getting old is not for sissies, and my hands will prove this true,
the joints are worn and rugged, and the scars both old and new.

My hands are bruised and ugly, with ragged fingernails,
but they are the hands with memories, of all that life entails.

That old scar on my middle finger, is a gift from childish rage,
it brings back thoughts of Granny Bird, a wise old native sage.

Getting old is not for sissies, as the lines of age do tell,
that golden ring upon my finger, brought pride and joy as well.

That awesome day our hands first touched, with youth and beauty fair,
and today we touch with age and smiles, and gentle loving care.

I have led a life of danger, with many scars upon my hands,
they are the scars of battles, fought in many distant lands.

Getting old is not for sissies, as my rugged hands will tell,
but these old hands stood by me, and brought me back from hell.

They have held the birth of children, as they passed that birthing fjord,
and they have been held in silent prayer, in homage to the Lord.

The scars are there from years of work, and steady honest sweat,
and these old hands have witnessed fear, and shook in nervous fret.

Getting old is not for sissies, and takes many things in stride,
getting rid of indecision, and doubt and ugly pride.

There are the scars of bitter anger, and of hope and harsh despair,
for these hands have known much sorrow, and toil and bitter wear.

But I will keep these ugly hands, and the memories that they hold,
because for each and every one, there’s a story to be told.

Getting old is not for sissies, it takes a pair of rugged hands,
and they may be worn and ugly, and bled in distant lands.

But God has lent them to me, to help me through this life,
through times of joy and happiness, and times of bitter strife.

But when I reach the other side, their beauty will shine through,
they bear the scars of a fruitful life, known by very few.