Guess what I have to memorize for school:
I'm proud of my dirty hands. Yes, they are dirty. And they are rough and knoby and caloosed. And I'm proud of the dirt and the knobs and the calooses. I didn't get them that way by playing bridge or drinking afternuon tea out of dayntee cups, or playing the well-advertized good samaritan at charity balls.
I got them that way by working with them, and I'm proud of the work and the dirt. Why shouldn't I feel proud of the work they do, these dirty hands of mine?
My hands are the hands of plumbers, of truck drivers and street cleaners, of carpenters, engineers, machinists and workers in steel. They are not pretty hands, they are dirty and knoby and callosed. But they are strong hands, hands that make so much that the world must have or die.
Someday, I think the world should go down on it's knees and kiss all the dirty hands of the working world as in the days long past amored knights would kiss the hands of ladies fair. I'm proud of my dirty hands. The world has kissed such hands. The world has always kissed such hands. Men and women put reverent lips to the hands of Him who held the hammer and the saw and the plane. His weren't pretty hands either when they chopped trees, dragged rough lumber (or lumbar?) and wielded carpenter's tools. They are workingman's hands, strong capable, proud hands. And weren't pretty hands when the executioners (I forgot this part). They were torn clean right through by ugly nails, and the blood was running from them, and the edges of the wounds were raw and dirty and swollen, and the joints were crooked and the fingers were horribly bent in a mute appeal for (something)
They weren't pretty hands then, but O God, they were beautiful- those hands of the Savior. I'm proud of those dirty hands, hands of the Savior, hands of God.
And I'm proud of my hands too, dirty hands, like the hands of my Savior, hands of my God.
Oh and I'm unbanned by my mom.
I'm proud of my dirty hands. Yes, they are dirty. And they are rough and knoby and caloosed. And I'm proud of the dirt and the knobs and the calooses. I didn't get them that way by playing bridge or drinking afternuon tea out of dayntee cups, or playing the well-advertized good samaritan at charity balls.
I got them that way by working with them, and I'm proud of the work and the dirt. Why shouldn't I feel proud of the work they do, these dirty hands of mine?
My hands are the hands of plumbers, of truck drivers and street cleaners, of carpenters, engineers, machinists and workers in steel. They are not pretty hands, they are dirty and knoby and callosed. But they are strong hands, hands that make so much that the world must have or die.
Someday, I think the world should go down on it's knees and kiss all the dirty hands of the working world as in the days long past amored knights would kiss the hands of ladies fair. I'm proud of my dirty hands. The world has kissed such hands. The world has always kissed such hands. Men and women put reverent lips to the hands of Him who held the hammer and the saw and the plane. His weren't pretty hands either when they chopped trees, dragged rough lumber (or lumbar?) and wielded carpenter's tools. They are workingman's hands, strong capable, proud hands. And weren't pretty hands when the executioners (I forgot this part). They were torn clean right through by ugly nails, and the blood was running from them, and the edges of the wounds were raw and dirty and swollen, and the joints were crooked and the fingers were horribly bent in a mute appeal for (something)
They weren't pretty hands then, but O God, they were beautiful- those hands of the Savior. I'm proud of those dirty hands, hands of the Savior, hands of God.
And I'm proud of my hands too, dirty hands, like the hands of my Savior, hands of my God.
Oh and I'm unbanned by my mom.
Some secret of mine
