My Hands

I hide my hands beneath my coat; So ashamed of them I could cry. For their wrinkles and chappedness, and nails that are cracked and dry;

I try so hard when my time is free to care for them at best. But they are ever busy, and rarely get to rest.

The babies that I have born, my hands cared for their needs. They washed,cleaned,oiled and scrubbed, of toiling they took no heed.

My hands have painted every room , in this our sheltered nest, and scrubbed the walls,and waxed the floors, and smoothed a brow with soft caress.

They have bandaged cuts,and tended burns, and doctored throats that pain, and cooled the brow of a fevered child, time and time again.

They have cooked the meals,pared and peeled, and have been cut,burned,and scraped; They have sewed,and mended all the clothes, No job have they escaped;

They have held tiny hands secure, on the very first day of school; And folded in reverent prayer, tried to follow God's every rule;

They have made mistakes,hurt and harmed, and shook as tear drops fell; These hands have reached to heaven, and the very depths of hell.

These hands have toiled these many years, as they have done my will. Forever obedient to me, and yet they serve me still;

Ashamed am I of these loyal servants, that God has given me? Ashamed I am, for being shamed for it is plain to see...

These hands that lie beneath my coat, are wrinkled from loving care. They have shared life with the man I love, and the children that we also share.

Ashamed am I for these hands of mine? Why, they are the proof of my love of life; The best of all the jobs in the world... Those of a mother and a wife.

~~~~ Wynell Tate Davis~~~~ Jan.6,1971~~~ ( This poem won me ,"The Golden Poet Award" )