If my fingertips could tell a story,
What in the world would they say?
Would they speak of the woman in yellow?
Would they tell of the night on the train?
She said, “Your fingers, crafty as they are,
Don’t know the smell of the eve of rain.
They haven’t felt the sounds of love,
Yet they move with all that grace.”
I said, “These hands, they are so tired.
The world has only told me,
Of things I must humbly hold,
And of things I must acquire.”
A day is coming soon, though
Where they’ll finally have their say,
They’ll put everything down,
And to the music, they shall sway.
So, she told me of a tune, God wrote with his fingerprints.
“All of creation knows it, and sings it all the time.
It’s a song of sweet surrender and a season to unwind.”
She said, “It’s fine if…
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