Father Hands Helpless tender instruments, my infant hands Clenched my father’s rough tender finger. Cradled in his hands, I slept and dreamt. Such unremembered memories Are the first fruits of a father’s love. Dim memories impressed up on my mind Remind me of quiet moments sitting in church Tracing out the lines that twist past calluses, The wrinkles and small imperfections That map out of a lifetimes worth of living. Hand in hand we walked along the road, Led by my father’s hands. My hands learned over the passing years The necessity of work and pride in doing it well. They were taught about honest handshakes And how to reach out in support. They learned, too, how to clench in anger, How to grasp with grief, to tremble in pain. My hands on their own, yet never alone, At all times aware of father upon father Stretching back, looking toward me. My hands know now of duty and honor Led by our fathers’ hands. The dinner table, hands folded together, And childrens’ prayers recited in studious order. Slowly learning of quiet communion within, The peace, the holy fear, in reaching out. Grappling with questions, discarding easy answers, Yet still holding on by a thread of grace. Learning, relearning service all over again, I do what I can, fathers and fathers’ fathers Point out the way. And rising over them all The Servant’s hands are spread, showing the cost, Led by the Father’s hands. Paul Beltman 06/19/96
Posted on: Sun, 16 Jun 2013 21:34:21 +0000
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