The Work of My Hands

Duty stands with steady hands,
A quiet vow that firmly lands.
It holds the line when storms appear,
And does not bow to doubt or fear.

It wakes before the light of dawn,
Presses forward, carrying on.
Not always stirred by heart’s delight,
Yet faithful still to what is right.

Devotion burns with inward flame,
Not forced by rule, nor bound by name.
It leans toward love with willing grace,
And finds its joy in staying place.

It lingers where affection grows,
It feels the weight, it deeply knows.
Not driven merely to comply,
But drawn by love that will not die.

Yet neither stands complete alone — One breath of flesh, one living bone.

For fire without a frame will tire,
And vows without warmth lose their fire.
So love must labor. Love must choose.
Through hidden strength and tender bruise.

For when resolve and longing conspire,
The ordinary climbs higher.
Duty guards what love has sworn.
Devotion keeps that oath reborn.

Work becomes worship to the Lord in beautiful attire,
As promise becomes unquenchable fire.