Mama's Hands

A surgeon's hands are long and slender, I suppose,
But Mama's hands could pluck a splinter, plant a rose.
A musician's hands receive admiring looks,
But no more than my Mama's, when she cooks.

Not beauteous, slim, or manicured,
Just working hands which long have life endured.
Work-roughened, gnarled a little, they are tender still,
So cool upon the fevered brow of one who's ill.

"Whatever your hands find to do, doeth it," the Bible says,
And Mama's hands were quick to answer "Yes."
With one swift movement they could rip a bandage up,
Tie up a wound, a finger, or a cut.

Like wing-ed things I used to see them fly
O'er berry patch or cotton field, container high
To the brim, when ours were only half.
"How do you do it?" we would ask, but she would only laugh.

"Idle hands are the devil's workshop," so they say,
Mama's hands won't have to answer that on Judgment Day.
Her hands have spent a lifetime washing dishes,
Patching pants and cutting switches.

Smoothing every childhood braid in place,
They washed roughly, yet tenderly each grimy face.
They can crochet pretty lace or hang diapers,
(Look, she lifts them to her face.)

They make homemaking an art,
But Mama's hands just give expression to her heart.
Someday she to Jesus will be raised,
For when I saw her go, her hands gave praise.

(In memory of Beulah Cope Pruitt for Mother's Day)