Hands

My hands seem so small
so much of the time.
They've never known
a true hard days work,
or held a dying hand.
They're too weak
to hold on to everything
that I wish to hold on to.
There are all sorts of hands
but the strongest ones
are the ones that are
holding me through.
My hands have cradled
a new born;
but the strongest
have cradled the most
broken of men.
The strongest hands
have held the tiniest of babes
too delicate for this world.
There are so many different
hands.
Small and tender ones,
large burly ones,
thin and worn ones
thick ones,
dirty ones,
clean ones,
each fits perfectly
in the strongest hands.