30 Years Later this poem still rings true.
MY MOTHER’S HANDS
My mother slipped her hands in mine
when I had older grown.
The memories that filled my mind
were of loving years at home.
And the gentle hands that are my mom???s
seem never to have aged.
Still tender, still caring, still soft and warm
as if life had not turned a page.
I remember hands that washed my face
oh so silky to the touch
And hands that tied my shoes with speed
and made rescues by their clutch.
Though sometimes her hands were roughened
by hard work and bitter winds
Still my little hands found refuge
when she???d hold them close again.
Not diamond rings or pearls that gleam
give beauty that I find.
But her hands in prayer or stroking my hair
tenderly touch my mind.
I seize her hands so often now,
as eagerly as when a child
For God gave these hands to mother
to use for Him awhile.
By Marcia Marks Lamb – March 28, 1977
Written for her mother, Ruth Winters Marks for her 59th birthday.
