Nicholas Bradvica Poetry

These are my hands,
Blistered and scarred,
They’re weak and worn,
And rough and hard,
But these are my hands,
That kept me from falling,
When I was a child,
I used them for crawling,
These are my hands,
That led the way,
These are my hands,
For when I prayed,
These are my hands,
I used through life,
To embrace a friend,
Or hug my wife,
These are my hands,
That delivered a child,
These are my hands,
Where my son first smiled,
And though these hands,
Have done so much,
My wearied hands,
Still hold my crutch,
My aging hands,
Are almost through,
But through the years,
Have served me true,
My faithful hands,
Though some think odd,
Will help me climb,
To the gates of God,
And my special hands,
Have completed the test,
My lovely hands,
Are now at rest.

Poet: Nicholas Bradvica