Tiny little infant’s hand,
Formed and folded in the womb,
The wheat filled land must seem so grand
For fingers closed before their bloom.
Here’s your father’s open palm,
Grip one finger, grow and eat.
He will lift you, storm or calm,
As wind both breaks and builds the wheat.
And here’s your mother’s hand as well,
In winds she’ll hold yours ‘lest you fall.
Her shelt’ring love will yet compel
Your fingers soon to reach for all.
Three hands now hold these virtues three:
Your father’s lifting hope beside
Your mother’s love for family,
Amidst the wheat, all unified.
But first of all, our faith is found
In Father’s sky, in Mother’s earth.
Three hands as one rose from the ground,
Three hands once closed before their birth,
Formed and folded in the sod,
The bread of life, fresh, untrod,
Three hands now touch the Hand of God.