My Fathers Hands

My Fathers Hands

If my dad's hands could have told us a story
They'd have told of some grief and some joy
Each cranny and nook like a page in a book
That was started when he was a boy

The scars on his hands were like medals
Received as he went on his way
Strange as it seems they relate to the dreams
That he held to his very last day

His hands were the hands of a workingman
The knuckles were calloused and old
They'd held dogs and rabbits and babies
But not much silver or gold

Cause my Dad spent his days as a carpenter
Breathing life into pieces of wood
Feeling the power that comes from the earth
And passes away into good

From wood box to cradle he crafted them all
Each project a model of pride
That showed the love he had for the work he performed
And the love he kept hidden inside

Worth is not measured in silver or gold
Or how much we have when life ends
Its judged by the value of truth that we hold
And the love of family and friends

My Dad's hands have told us a story
We each hold a piece of his love
And the work that he cherished while with us on earth
He performs for the man up above.