The earth has hands both rough and kind,
They hold the roots, they shape the mind.
They cradle seeds, they cradle rain,
They hold the weight of joy and pain.

They stretch through fields, through stone and clay,
They work through night, they work through day.
They hold the mountains, lift the seas,
They bend and twist with ancient ease.

And though they crack, and though they fade,
They never stop the things they made.
For earth’s old hands, both firm and true,
Have built this world for me and you.