Poetry of Hands

The tan, gnarled knuckles crease
As they are forever bent
In the constant state
Of a subservient life.

The veins strain through
The weathered skin
As if trying to escape
Their vigorous pumping.
Like the well
That water has been drawn
So have these phalanges
Been the primary source.

Great the number
That have benefitted
The difference they have made
To many
Or to some.

The lives they have molded-
Shaped into being
The impact
Ever unseeing

Who will ever know
What these hands have done
Will it have been all for nothing
No.
It was all for the glory
Of His only begotten Son.