Father's Hands

Father’s hands, so rough and scarred,
Father’s hands, so strong and bold,
They fix, they work, they are there to hold.

Blunted fingers, callused palms,
Weathered, cracked, broken nails
Missing fingers, life’s story it tells.

Rough but gentle, hard yet soft,
Familiar with a hammer, accustomed to a saw,
Used in correction, extended in love.

Hands holding a Bible, God’s Holy Word,
Hands that were familiar with the pages,
A friend, a comfort, a confident through the ages.

Father’s hands, so strong and caring
Father’s hands, treating all alike,
Helping the old with a window, the young with a bike.

Father’s hands, so much like him,
They tell who he is and how he lived.
With them, to so many, he loved to give.

They are a picture of those hands,
Nail scarred, battered, splintered and bruised,
Hands of your heavenly Father, extended to you.
　
By Don Doran

In Memory of my father David L. Doran 1930-1999