Take a look at these hands, Lord,
They’re worn and rough.
My face scarred with coal marks,
My language is tough.
But you know in the heart, Lord,
Lies the soul of a man
Who toils at a living
That few men can stand
There’s sulfur and coal dust
And sweat on my brow.
To live like a rich man,
I’d never know how.
But if you’ve got a corner
When my work is through,
I’d be mighty proud to live
Neighbors with you.
Each dawn as I rise, Lord,
I know all too well…
I face only one thing:
A pit filled with hell.
To scratch out a living
The best that I can.
But deep in this heart
Lies the soul of a man.
With black covered faces
And hard calloused hands,
We ride the dark tunnels,
Our work to begin.
To labor and toil
As we harvest the coal
We silently pray,
Lord, please harvest our souls
Just a corner in Heaven
When I’ve grown too old
And my back it won’t bend, Lord,
To shovel the coal.
Lift me out of the pit, Lord.
Where the sun never shines,
‘Cause it get might weary
Down there in the mine.
But I’d rather be me, Lord.
Though no riches I show,
Though tired and weary.
I’m just glad to know
When the Great Seal is broken
The pages will tell
That I’ve already spent
My time in hell.
This poem is copyrighted by Brenda Grahm.
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