• My father’s hands are rough and worn
    Their ragged skin is well adorn
    With cracks and scars he bears with pride
    From the times from which he never cried.

    For those hands of his that I adore,
    Were scarred from the work that he did for
    His wife and child, his precious lights.
    It was for us my father fights.

    My mother’s hands, once soft and slim,
    Have hardened due to times once grim.
    Tough and strong, they swiftly dance
    Though work she chose when given a chance.

    Those weathered hands, they blister still
    So that each of us can eat our fill.
    But still she smiles and works some more,
    Because it’s us she’s working for.

    My tiny hands, still soft and young,
    Grasp their hands as I’m gently sung
    To sleep against my mother’s arm
    As my father’s hands guard me from harm.

    Mother, father, hold me tight.
    Teach me how to do what’s right.
    Bathe me with your loving care;
    Love this family will always share.