My father's hands. Strong and rugged, they bear the marks of a lifetime of hard work. But more than anything, these are loving hands. Hands that held me many years ago. Hands that have held my children. Hands that I long to hold again. Our prayers are with you tomorrow, dad.
Here is something that he wrote this past August. He called it "The Bare Truth."
This world is poor to give me riches
The pleasures of youth are fleeting
The joys of creation are in decay
Its pains and groans are on full display
The things I have put my trust in
Have come to rob my dwelling
But what I have truly given Thee
Its banks are surely swelling
Tags: character hands love poetry pray The Bare Truth wrinkles