Gingerly he turns the key and
guides the pendulum's flight,
Replaces, then, the key
inside
and beds down for the night.
While others love to hear the
chime
that says the day's begun,
'Tis father's hand that marks
the time
and gives it pow'r to run.
When desert sun would scorch
and burn
the shoots and buds so
tender,
All through the night he
takes the turn
that green life it may
render.
Though it were sandy desert
soil
unwillingly to yield
He lays his hand to work and
toil
and lo -- a verdant field.
With tenderness he looks on
as
the lambs find mother's side,
And watches as they nurse and
feed,
his face aglow with pride.
But then he sees the small
one who
has not a mother there,
"Come, Lamby, here," and in
his hand
he takes him in his care.
When hearts are filled with
gratitude
or lifted up with love,
He voices our emotions in
his praise to God above.
The words of
lovéd, sacred
hymns
in tenor sing so true,
And Father's hand can make
the old
piano praise Him, too.
As with the fields and
flocks,
and the piano when he sings,
As with the antique, wind-up
clocks,
and other treasured things,
His touch has given life and
care
and sustenance and power,
To grandchildren who've
gladly come
to earth in this great hour.
A hand of friendship,
discipline,
of comfort, guidance, love,
To men and women here for
God,
just come from up above.
And when he speaks with faith
and power,
God's will we understand.
How great the blessings
wrought beneath
the touch of Father's hand.
--by Rachel DeMille, in tribute to a beloved father and grandfather.
