Is my soul within my hands instead of in my heart?
For not my heart, but my hands are what I use to take part
In both good or evil, from ending to start
And my hands that paint the greys in this piece of art

Am I good though my hands carry on in violent desperation?
Grabbing selfishly at life in strife regardless of evil's escalation
No thought of others, valor, or God's promised vindication
You look at me and see yourself in the evaluation

Can I prove I am more than stepping stones composed of good intentions?
And if so, then do actions and therefore my soul aide in good's intervention
Are these lines embedded in my palms signs of past transgressions
Or a tally of the justice I've yet to do in this fragile life's progression