Mama's Hands

I saw you hide your hands

in line, Behind that pretty lady,

I noticed too,

hers were soft and white-

immaculate from care.

But Ma, I say, it's no disgrace

to have workin' hands like you,

and had she lived the life you have,

she'd have hands just like it too!

But her hands have never
hauled in wood, or worked
in God's good earth.

They've never felt the bitter
cold, or chopped ice for
waitin'' stock.

They've never doctored sick
ones, or dressed a poor goat's hoof.

They've never pulled a hip-locked
calf, or carried feed into the barn.

They've probably never patched blue jeans,
Or had worn ol' shirts to iron.

They've never touched a young'n,
Or caressed a fevered head.

With hands so gently laid on
him, prayin'.

They've never scrubbed a milker,
Or washed a milk cow's udder.

They've never guided with those hands,
a child who's lost the way.

They've never cooked for us hungry hordes,
Or washed dishes day by day.

They've never peeled peaches,
Nor have they canned.

They've never worn a blister,
Or had calluses to show.

For all they've done for others,
and the kindness I know.

So you see, my dearest Mama-

Yours are hands of Love,
And I bet God will notice when
He greets you from Above.

-MNJ