OLD CRIPPLED HANDS
Peter used to play the piano in sweet melodic tone,
Concerts halls full, listening to his music alone,
He looked down at his gnarled hands and wept,
In his head all his wonderful music he kept,
Yet now he could no longer play to delight
Himself or others with music soft and bright.
One night he prayed, ‘Just one more time please,
Let my fingers run along those ivory piano keys,
Just once before I come to thee dearest Lord above.
With his walker he went to the piano, and sat still,
Energy through his twisted hands gave him a thrill,
He lifted up his hands in graceful pose as if to play,
And he remembered last night for what he did pray,
Fingers began to move across the keys, music came
Like the fountain of youth, removing all aches and pain.
Staff and patients, visitors did suddenly gather around,
He was young again for he had his audience totally bound.
Old heads lifted and smiled, the deaf come closer to hear,
It seemed at that sweet moment that heaven was very near.
A performance of a lifetime played in a hospital for the dying,
Now he felt at peace and at that moment with joy crying.

M Ann Margetson April 22, 2002