Busy hands clap for Jesus, vibrations fill the air, Moans of joy, moans of sorrow, sometimes in silent prayer, When I think of Stone Mountain, its fragrant pine needle path, Trees and cousins aplenty, those memories make me laugh.
Busy hands churning butter, cooks everything from scratch, Country sausage, fried apples, sweet oatmeal none could match, I think of a country homestead with a sweet magnolia tree, Warm cozy patchwork quilting, those memories strengthen me.
Busy hands create a poultice pungent strong medicine, Red flannel warmth flowed freely, healed me from toe to chin, Memories of Mama Hanah's lemon pound cake and steaming spiked honey tea, Still Angels linger watching, those memories comfort me.
Busy hands making biscuits, crochet scarves Argo stiff, African violets and Cactus plants in red clay pots, create sharp pointed tips, Memories of seeds and harvest, big families once strong, Take me to the water, those memories linger on.
Busy hands pelling apples, tart slices, simmering sauce, Steamy, hot sugared laughter, red-checkered tablecloth, Strong bridges brought me over, times I just can't repeat, But when my life tastes bitter, those memories are sweet.
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