I'm in a poetry writing mood apparently. :blink: Hands The greatest puzzle in all the land Is none other than the human hand. With fingers long and fine and smooth It stretches out to gently soothe, Or, rough and strong, it lifts and weighs And toils and labors all its days. Mysterious, though, we now shall see Its curious versatility: Though lovers do their hands entwine, This grasp may turn to blows in time. Where once the hands in friendship met, They just as easily rise in threat. They hold the gun, they grasp the knife. In rage or hate, they take a life. Indeed, it seems the little hand Has committed all the ills of man. And yet this tool of acts so vile Can lift and comfort a crying child. When, for the sick, no hope is left, Skilled hands can bring them back from death. They feed the hungry, protect the weak, And forgiveness for their sins they seek. Consider, then, my reader wise, And listen to what I advise: That hands only behave in kind, For good and evil live in the mind. So guard your thoughts and keep them true That only good your hands might do.