MY MOTHER'S HANDS

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Oct 2, 1901

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 27, No. 40.

MY MOTHER'S HANDS.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands! They’re neither white nor small; And you, I know, would scarcely think That they are fair at all. I've looked on hands whose form and hue A sculptor's dream might be; Yet are those aged, wrinkled hands More beautiful to me.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands! Tho heart were weary and sad, Those patient hands kept toiling on, That the children might be glad. I always weep, as, looking back To childhood's distant day, I think how these hands rested not When mine were at their play.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands! They're growing feeble now; For time and pain have left their mark On hands and heart and brow: Alas! Alas! the nearing time, And the sad, sad day to me, When 'neath the daisies, out of sight, These hands will folded be.

But, O! beyond this shadow land, Where all is bright and fair, I know full well these dear old hands Will palms of victory bear; Where crystal streams through endless years Flow over golden sands, And where the old grow young again, I'll clasp my mother's hands.

—Anon