Tender little hands
Held up a begging bowl,
In the hope that some
Passer-by would give
What the hands had lost before.
Many went by indifferent,
Many gave looks of resentment,
Those that passed,
Tossed into the bowl,
Hatred and sorrow,
Sarcasm and defeat.
Many others held out
Frustration and despair,
Misery and fear.
All this, the little bowl collected
But not a coin of Love
Did the child’s searching hands find,
Nor did the hopeful eyes see
The hand of joy turn generous.
A last cruel hand rose
- the hand of Providence.
A stone flew from it
Shattering what the small hands held.
As though expecting the blow,
In pieces fell the bowl;
The contents scattered on the path,
Catching the feet of those that passed,
Returning to them
Who had before,
Dropped them in the little begging bowl,
Which the tender little hands held.