I saw you hide your hands in line behind that lady fair
I noticed too, hers soft & white – immaculate from care.
But Ma, I say it’s no disgrace, to have workin’ hands like you
and had she lived the life you have, she’d have hands just like them too.

But her hands have never hauled wood, or worked in God’s good Earth
They’ve never felt the bitter cold, or chopped ice for waitin’ stock
They’ve never doctored sickness, or dressed a horses hock
They’ve never pulled a hip-locked calf, or packed water to the barn
They’ve probably never patched blue jeans
or had warn ol’ socks to darn

They’ve never touched a young’n, or caressed a fevered head
with hands so gently folded; all night long beside his bed
They’ve never scrubbed a kitchen floor, or done dishes every day
They’ve never guided with those hands a child who’s lost the way
They’ve never made a Christmas gift, shaped by a lovin’ hand
They’ve never peeled apples, nor vegetables they’ve canned
They’ve never worn a blister, or had callusses to show
For all they’ve done for others
& the kindnesses I know

So you, my dearest Mama, yours are hands of love
And I bet the Lord will notice
when he greets you from above

– Brandon Mitchell
MDOC# xxxxx