I have a thing for Hands and Feet Whether washed before we eat or sleep Whats on top of and underneath When I look at them they speak Tell stories of labor and love The tenderness or the toughness of How it is now and once was So strong, yet oh so weak Extremities, with or without, a number of phalanges Gnarled or sleek, by the grace of God, they have held up beneath Enormous pressure, they offer an endless measure Regardless of work or pleasure They stamp or pour out, everything without. reward For many of their selfless chores The Glory they know, is not theirs, but Yours For not by might, nor by power but by the spirit Do they, push it, shove it, kick it, move it, build it, touch it, grip it, stroke it, caress it, rock it, hold it, mold it, pad it on the back, scold or console it balancing it all, between two hands and feet The doers of all that we think Pointing out the direction, earthy or heavenly destined To get us there, what an honorable pair His pierced, so ours would be sheared Often neglected of tender loving care Made Holy when raised or leaping in the air Washed in the blood, in life or death Hands and feet, deserve, to some day receive Eternal rest Or simply for us to remember just how blessed We are the have them
Lord, I hold your hand and foot, (W. African colloquialism for, I beg you) Mommy Dearest
