A Quote by B. B. King

I'm more careful about my hands than about what I eat and most anything else, because my hands have been my living. My hands have been able to help me learn. My hands have taken me around the world. So I'm very proud of my hands.
I used to be very hands-on, but lately I've been more hands-off and I plan to become more hands-on and less hands-off and hope that hands-on will become better than hands-off, the way hands-on used to be.
Change is not in the hands of government, not in the hands of a leader or guru, and not in the hands of the powerful or wealthy. It is in our hands: the hands of each and every one of us.
Hands learn more than minds do, hands learn how to hold other hands.
Food became for me a way of becoming self-sufficient with my hands, to regain manual literacy, which I think has been lost on our generation and certainly younger generations. Very few people can actually make things with their hands and do things with their hands.
Marco Rubio hit my hands. Nobody has ever hit my hands. I've never heard of this. What - look at those hands. Are they small hands? And he referred to my hands - if they're small, something else must be small. I guarantee you, there's no problem. I guarantee you.
I can also tell in whose hands I am. Do these hands tremble? There can be no doubt: these are the hands of a military officer. Is it a firm pulse? I say without vacillating: these are the hands of a liberator.
Let my hands be of service to people. Let me earn wisdom through my hands. Let my hands do good work
I hold my face in my two hands. No, I am not crying. I hold my face in my two hands to keep the loneliness warm - two hands protecting, two hands nourishing, two hands preventing my soul from leaving me in anger.
My run is so weird. That's what I'm most nervous about in this whole ordeal. I'm most nervous about everybody making fun of the way I run. I do, like, karate hands. Instead of running with my hands closed together like a normal person. It's like I'm trying to be aerodynamic or something, so my hands are straight like razors. Karate hands.
The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.
Oh, forgive me. Shaking hands with me is an unpleasant experience. My hands are no longer hands.
Khloe has the youngest hands. You can tell a woman's age by her hands, and she taught me that. She has way younger hands than I do because she's addicted to wearing sunscreen on them. I'm not consistent with it, but maybe that will be my new year's resolution.
I hear footsteps and Four's hands wrap around my wrists. I let him pry my hands from my eyes. He encloses one of my hands perfectly between two of his. The warmth of his skin overwhelms the ache in my fingers from holding the bars. "You all right?" he asks, pressing our hands together. "Yeah." He starts to laugh.
I am like a person whose hands were kept numb, without sensation from the first moment of awareness - until one day the ability to feel is forced into them. And I say "Look! I have no hands!" But the people all around me say: "What are hands?
I've heard it said that grace is God reaching God's hands into the world. And the Bible tells us that we are part of the body of Christ, that if we let the Spirit move through us, we can become the hands of Christ on earth. Hands that heal, bless, unite, and love. I'd like to think God's hands are a bit like Grace's man hands—gentle but big, busy, and tough. God's hands are those of a creator—an artist who molded and shaped the universe out of a void, who hewed matter from nothingness.
The hands of those I meet are dumbly eloquent to me. The touch of some hands is an impertinence. I have met people so empty of joy, that when I clasped their frosty finger-tips, it seemed as if I were shaking hands with a northeast storm.
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