My Mothers Hands
By Mary Jane (Racite) Zielsdorf
Small gnarled fingers and a plain wedding band,
All veined from life's toils were my mother's hands.
They tied many ribbons, combed tangles away.
washed many smudged faces from a child's dirty play.
Washed lines of laundry and ironed bushels of clothes.
Kissed away bruises, and wiped many noses.
These hands dried the tears of a child's hurting heart,
and hugged away fears of a room that was dark.
These hands gave the needy, in her unselfish way
And if she couldn't give, well, she knew how to pray.
These hands turned the pages of the book by her bed,
It was Gods Holy Word that she lived by and read.
O'er the portals of time, there will not be another,
so precious and dear, as the hands of my mother.