Ph: Love: These Hands - Poem by Brian Johnston
These hands will never raise a son,
Brush daughter's hair, fix clasp on dress,
My hair's quite white, for I am old,
My now's not one my muse foretold.
These hands have wounds that did not mend
And scars that show. I can't pretend
To be at choice, though still, I voice
My will to settle life's invoice.
For I have come to think, you see,
Of blemishes as truly me,
And if perfection is not mine,
His Grace is still my Valentine.
To make the best of what God gives,
To join with Him as He forgives,
For I see now, His will is best,
Find in this thought, my joy, my rest.
My life is frail, sails unknown sea,
But I choose where I want to be,
So climb aboard if you need lift,
Accept both song and hand's flawed gift!
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