30 Years Later this poem still rings true.

MY MOTHER'S HANDS

My mother slipped her hands in mine

when I had older grown.

The memories that filled my mind

were of loving years at home.

And the gentle hands that are my mom???s

seem never to have aged.

Still tender, still caring, still soft and warm

as if life had not turned a page.

I remember hands that washed my face

oh so silky to the touch

And hands that tied my shoes with speed

and made rescues by their clutch.

Though sometimes her hands were roughened

by hard work and bitter winds

Still my little hands found refuge

when she???d hold them close again.

Not diamond rings or pearls that gleam

give beauty that I find.

But her hands in prayer or stroking my hair

tenderly touch my mind.

I seize her hands so often now,

as eagerly as when a child

For God gave these hands to mother

to use for Him awhile.

By Marcia Marks Lamb - March 28, 1977

Written for her mother, Ruth Winters Marks for her 59^th birthday.