Thank you Lord for dirty hands
That touch my stove and fridge;
For sticky little fingers that
Try to build a bridge.
For careless hands that go astray
In search of something new;
For hands to hold and show the way
As mothers often do.
For precious little hands in which
Great faith so abounds;
For silly little hands that reach
To touch a mother's frown.
And thank you for your guiding hand
That leads me to the light;
That lifts me when I stumble
And points me to the right.
Copyright Sheila Townsend 2000