Hands

A baby’s hands
Soft and Smooth as cream
Reach out to grasp
Life’s precious dream.

I look at my own hands
Still smooth but roughened a bit
For by life’s troubles
They have been hit.

I am reminded of other hands
That for you and me were scarred.
Yet, because of infinite love
They were willingly marred.

They were perfect hands.
As innocent as a child’s
But they suffered hurt
That was by no means mild.

Those perfect hands I love
By their grace I live
To those perfect hands
My life I will always give.