My mother's hands are gnarled and quite wrinkled.
The kiss of time has left its beauty marks.
Those slender fingers clutch for more than mem'ries.
They reach in love to comfort hurting hearts.
My mother's hands upraised in praise to Jesus
call me to worship and to seek His face.
My mother's hands still fold to ask God's blessing.
They grasp His hand and hold on for dear life.
Much like a toddler takes her daddy's fingers,
my mother clings to God with knuckles white.
My mother's hands recall her deep devotion
inviting me to serve the Lord she loves.
My mother's hands are strangers to an iPad.
But they make music when she's asked to play.
An old upright or baby grand piano
provide the keys on which her fingers pray.
My mother's hands can entertain her neighbors
while worshiping the One who owns her heart.
My mother's hands will one day cease their motion.
Deprived of life, they'll lay unclenched and still.
They will remind me of her faithful service
responding to a call that she fulfilled.
My mother's hands will on that day direct me
to fix my gaze on our eternal home.
*the above poem can be sung to the tune "Finlandia"