Hands Are a Bond Between Father and Son 
~ Nicholas Gordon ~

Hands are a bond between father and son,
A tool that one teaches the other to use,
Needing to pass on the passion, or lose
Doing what long generations have done:
Sowing the seeds of what they have begun. 

Daddy's Hands 
~ Holly Dunn ~

I remember daddy's hands folded silently in prayer
And reachin' out to hold me, when I had a nightmare
You could read quite a story in the callous' and lines
Years of work and worry had left their mark behind 

I remember daddy's hands how they held my mama tight
And patted my back for something done right
There are things that I'd forgotten that I loved about the man
But I'll always remember the love in daddy's hands 

Daddy's hands were soft and kind when I was cryin'
Daddy's hands were hard as steel when I'd done wrong
Daddy's hands weren't always gentle but I've come to understand
There was always love in daddy's hands. 

I remember daddy's hands workin' 'til they bled
Sacrifised unselfishly just to keep us all fed
If I could do things over, I'd live my life again
And never take for granted the love in daddy's hands

My Dad's Hands
~ David Kettler ~

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. 

A fathers hands are gentle 



A father's hands are gentle 
as they guide through our life 


Reaching out to offer comfort 
to our troubles and strife 


They help us to remember 
the paths of 'right and wrong', 


And when we start to stumble 
. . . a father's hands are strong! 


A father's hands encourage us 
with love along the way


I really love my father's hands 
. . . especially on allowance day!