Men of Good Stock

I come from men of good stock,

Whose heads were almost as hard as their hands.

Hands that pushed wheelbarrows of concrete hundreds of feet in the air.

Their tempers as narrow as the planks they trekked,

Yet their amiability could not be matched.

Men that needed no switch or belt to beat you

But could put the fear of God in you with a glance;

And yet could show the compassion of Christ in an instant 

When the poor cried out in need.

They gave money they didn’t have,

And somehow received back

Pressed down, shaken together and running over.

Blessed, but they knew the greatest things in life were often the simplest:

A loving family, a cold beer, laughter from the deepest bowels of one’s spirit

Where tears would run down the cheeks of beige, tawny skin

At incidents of pain that would break others in two,

Pain often hidden by hardened hands.

The same hands that would provide for families and raise sons

Rearing the innocence of a sun-kissed child,

As if the Creator Himself had favor upon the lad

And his brown skin indicated he was closer to Him during his creation.

These men of stock:

Commanded legions

Fixed televisions

Told stories

Owned companies

Begged nobody

Honored everybody

Lived on their feet

And before the Holy One, died on their knees

But all possessed a hidden pain,

Covered by hardened hands.

And that pain is in me too.