Spring Semester 2010

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Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Grandpa's Hands

He held me in his hands

The day that I was born

The very first grandchild

Come into the world that morn

His hands swept me into his arms

Holding me tight by his side

The hands rough from working

But heart devoid of pride

His hands wrapped in bandage

As he lay sleeping in a bed

Awoke from his needed nap

To talk with dad and I instead

His hands working in his garden

Responsibility he’d never shirk

Helping me to pick the berries

Showing me how to work

His hands always serving

Never thinking of himself

Sacrificing all he ever had

His own desires on the shelf

His hands brought to his face

I’d never heard him cough that way

And then he’d smile at us

“It’s just a cough” he’d say

His hands holding mine

As he lay sick and dying

I sat there just holding on

Prayed the doctors were lying

His hands guiding me gently

Helping me to understand

He knew his life was not his own

He put it in the Savior’s hands

And sometimes if I’m quiet

Let go of some of life’s demands

If I close my eyes and wait

I can still feel his hands

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