He watched his daughter clasp her hands one day,
Then lift them heavenward to pray.
Thanking Love in her own way,
With Praying Hands. And another time--

He gazed upon an artist whose fingers sought access,
To cause from canvassed night of nothingness,
Spangles of form and color, and tones of happiness,
With Creative Hands. And in their little place--

He watched his wife scrub kettles and toil,
Orchestrating all the mire and soil,
Wrestling order and sense from domestic turmoil,
With Handiwork Hands. And finally--

He marveled at the nurse who pressed comfort and care,
On one whose hurt was agony to bear;
By tender touch she soothed distress and despair,
With Healing Hands.

And so--

Their hands enable them to cope;
They speak for them and are the scope,
Wherewith toward life they blindly grope.