My father’s hands, were strong and firm,
But also rough as well.
He used them for the work he did,
And you could always tell.
You could see the calluses,
And all the scars and pain.
On his shirt you could also see,
Where blood had left a stain.
His work was hard and took its toll,
He knew it was just the way,
He provided for his family’s needs,
Just living day by day.
I don’t think he would change a thing,
Although his life was hard,
He played the deck that he was dealt,
Every single card.
I remember back when I was young,
And remember him with pride.
A measure of a man is not his gold,
But what he has inside.