I've held hands in mine / That made great art from clay
I've listened to deaf friends talk / Whose hands had much to say

If My hands could tell a story, what would it be?
Would they tell of times, good and bad. How would they judge me?

These hands have held a rock wall / Holding on for my life
The same hands that pulled a trigger / To make it through the fight

The Good Book that my Momma / Brought me up to believe
Says it's Not by works / That any man is made free

They've held my Son, and Daughter / High up toward the heavens
They've lifted up, and they've struck out / Some things aint worth a mention

But 'If these hands could tell a story,'
I wonder if you'd still let me ...

Wrap them 'round your waist at night / Hold your face close to mine
Place yours in mine when we walk / And Not judge me By the Way They Talk ...

[Well, there's scars from being cut open,
burns from knuckle to wrist,
a break from a bar fight,
and fingers that calloused just a bit...

From making noise and trying
to sing and write a few songs.
I guess these hands will tell
half the story after all.]

If these hands could tell a story, what would it be?
Would they tell of times, good and bad, Or would they punish me?