In thinking of your father and the craft he loved so well,
Reminds me of another death – the Old Story to tell.
Our Lord Himself, fastened to death by tools of His own trade,
The wood and nails – instruments by which His death’s song was played.
The wood, stained with the Savior’s blood – a platform for our souls,
Became the anchor of the building which would make us whole.
In love He toiled through sweat and pain to give His life that we,
So cold and destitute in sin, would resurrected be.
Your father, too, worked hard through life to build a family.
He died while working, and we know he did so valiantly.
So now in grief recall the common occupation road.
These men of hammer, saw, and blade upon the streets of gold.