Hands,
Blistered from the days work,
Scared from his line of work,
Soft,
Delicate,
They where not made for this.

Hands soft and caring,
His hands worn and hurt,
He was not made for this.

Hands of kindness and care,
Holding his weapon bare,
Hands not made for this.

A contract forged for life,
Hands once soft now callused and scared,
Hurting hands,
He was not meant for this.

Soft to touch when not used,
Hard and cold when used for this.
Truly not meant for this.

He could have been a painter,
An artist,
An actor,
But he is not;
He is our reaper.

Scythe clutched in hardened hands,
A hardened heart with them stands.
I know yes I do;
The true kindness is what you feel,
Your hand so much bigger than mine,
Soft touch,
Hard hands.
You where never meant for this.