By Sheila King
The withered hands once strong and sure,
Though weighed with time and trembling now,
Moved by love, through pain made pure;
Oft touched the fevered brow
They toiled in diligence and patient love,
The precious fruits of life to tend,
As though guided from above
All cares, all sorrows, theirs to mend.
Frail hands I wrap safe up in mine,
One last sweet touch, then softly gone
To fold in rest until the time
They wake and journey on.