The Skill of the Hand

With hands of skill

With a wish and a will

From a babe in arm’s

To one with many, many, charms,

No longer fools gold,

Getting graceful and old

It’s my father you see

Many ghosts to set free.

It was early in time

When my brothers were mine

Many rules there to break,

Silence marks my escape.

Through the wooden frame bound

Came a beautiful sound.

With freedom I stand,

Through the skill of the hand.

Golden rivers run free

In the melody, you’ll see.

Peace can seem often distant,

Sometimes, hard to grasp instant.

But the skill of the hand,

It can reach to the soul.

In a way, that’s the spirit,

That has taken a hold.

Hold on to that spirit,

For what ever its form.

Through the fingers comes humour,

Pain, even scorn.

Never take that for granted this beautiful gift.

It’s the skill of the hand

In a spiritual land.

By Maurice Lennon

16 May 2002