Bedtime came, we were settling down,
 I was holding one of my lads.
 As I grasped him so tight, I saw a strange sight:
 My hands... they looked like my dad's!

I remember them well, those old gnarled hooks,
 there was always a cracked nail or two.
 And thanks to a hammer that strayed from its mark,
 his thumb was a beautiful blue!

They were rough, I remember, incredibly tough,
 as strong as a carpenter's vice.
 But holding a scared little boy at night,
 they seemed to me awfully nice!

The sight of those hands - how impressive it was
 in the eyes of his little boy.
 Other dads' hands were cleaner, it seemed
 (the effects of their office employ).

I gave little thought in my formative years
 of the reason for Dad's raspy mitts:
 The love in the toil, the dirt and the oil,
 rusty plumbing that gave those hands fits!

Thinking back, misty-eyed, and thinking ahead,
 when one day my time is done.
 The torch of love in my own wrinkled hands
 will pass on to the hands of my son.

I don't mind the bruises, the scars here and there
 or the hammer that just seemed to slip.
 I want most of all when my son takes my hand,
 to feel that love lies in the grip.
~ By David Kettler ~