Such beautiful, beautiful hands,

They’re neither whith nor small

And you, I know, would scarcely think

That thay were fair at all.

I’ve looked in hands whose from and hue

A sculptor’s dream might be

Yet are these aged wrinkled hands

Most beautiful to me.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!

Through heart were weary and sad

These patients hands kept toiling on

That the children might be glad,

I almost weep when loocking bacl

To childhood’s distant day!

I think how these hand rested not

When mine were at thay play.

Such beautiful,beautiful hands!

Thay’re growing feeble now,

And time and pain have left their mark

On hand, and heart and brow.

Alas! alas! the nearing time

And the sad, sad day to me,

When ‘neath the daisies, out of sight,

These hands must folded be.

But oh! beyond the shadowy lands,

Where all is bright and fair,

I know full well these dear all hands

Will palm of victory bear;

When crystal streams, through endless years,

Flow year golden sands,

And where the old are young again,

I’ll clasp my mother’s hand.