God's Hands Poem by Germina Melius

His hands are like the branches of a mango tree,
dispersing fruit to his neighbours far and wide,
their hearts elated, eyes tearing, tummies sufficed.

People talk about his goodness beyond the land.
How can these wrinkled hands be so kind?

His daughter marvels at the generosity of his heart,
and the beauty of his mind.

His hands are an open vault and hers like frosty ice.
They have never touched his.

(I thank God every day for his hands.)

Germina Melius
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