I studied the hands of a woman so old

They bore wrinkles, and spots, and fingers, so cold.

Gnarled and crippled is what some folks see

Their usefulness past; oh, but not me.

​​

An abundance of years

Have changed her strong hands to frail

But if we just listen,

They have a story to tell:

​

I see hands that once grew a garden,

Reared children and baked bread,

They tied shoe laces, peeled potatoes,

And tucked babies into bed.

​

They tell a long story

Of a life filled with years

Brimming with smiles, and laughter,

And a sea filled with tears.

​

These hands are not spent​

But now fold in silent prayer

Thanking God for His Mercy.

His Love, and His Care.

​

Her hands, in the eyes of the Father​

Are neither wrinkled nor old

But treasured, cherished, and loved

More precious than gold.

​

So, when my hands grow old, your hands too​

Let us be grateful for life's gift of many days

Whether folded in prayer or lifted high

Let us thank our Maker with glorious praise.

​