Post by Alfred Elvis (@Demigrant001)

Behold these hands—not fair by idle measure, Nor smooth with ease, nor spared by gentle days; Yet count them not devoid of noble treasure, For love hath carved their beauty in strange ways.

These rugged palms, by honest labour worn, Have wrestled want and travailed through the years; They bore the heat of many a weary morn, And hid their anguish lest their children's tears.

For wisdom saith: "Judge not the hand by softness, But by the burdens it hath gladly borne." And blessed is the man whose daily offering Hath clothed his house and welcomed every morn.

Happy indeed is he whose hands grow old In faithful toil, that others may know rest; For though the world prize gold and polished stone, Heaven counteth sacrifice among the blessed.

Thus call these hands what they most truly are: Not rough, but beautiful; Not broken, but glorious; For every scar upon them is a love letter Written by a father to his family.

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