From the moment a child is born,
A mother’s hands are busy;
She holds her tiny baby,
And rock them till she’s dizzy!
She changes a million diapers,
Both wet and quite stinky;
Her hands are washed clean,
From thumb to pinky!
Her hands get soaked,
From tears in every cry,
She wipes those tears away,
Until they are good and dry.
From wiggly hands and feet,
She struggles to change clothes;
From colds and sickness,
She wipes buggies from the nose.
As the baby grows,
She has done so many dishes;
The laundry she’s folded,
She’s hemmed with stitches.
Her fingers smooth back hair,
Maybe tie it back in a tail;
Her pointer finger stretches,
Keeping the child from a wail.
The routine continues,
As the child grows up;
Now she soothes the scrapes,
And pours drinks in a cup.
Her hands fly up in a gesture,
As she then scolds her teen;
Her hands just want to reach out,
And give the neck a wring.
But gently she sighs and gestures,
placing her hand on her heart;
For she knows it won’t be long,
And her teen will grow apart.
And then they go out,
Into a world so scary;
Her hands tremble with worry,
Especially when they go to marry.
Then the cycle comes around,
And the mother’s hands now hold;
A miniature of her baby,
A regift from God’s own mold.
Her hands take over like a pro,
Her wrinkles show proof of care;
She holds her baby’s baby,
Like a big ole teddy bear.
And as she goes on in time,
She reflects on her worn out hands;
Memories of what they’ve accomplished,
Are numbered like the sands.
Good ole Arther takes hold,
And her hand begin to curl;
Memories of a lifetime,
Shine like an endless pearl.