Classic Poem

My WIFE'S hands are long and thin,
Fit to catch a spirit in,
Fit to set a subtle snare
For something lighter than the air.

My brother's hands are long and fine,
Good at verse and pouring wine,
Good to spend and bad to hoard
And good to hold a singing sword.

My own hands are short and blunt
Being children of affront,
Base mechanics at the most
That have sometimes touched a ghost.

I ask between the running sands,
A blessing upon four hands,
And for mine an iron stake
They can do their best to break.

Now God the Son and God the Sire
And God the triple-handed fire,
Make these blessings come to be
Out of your civility
For four hands of courtesy.