When eyes that we once knew as keen,
alive to every wondrous sight,
turn inward toward some land unseen
of hidden seas and unknown heights,
grant us to look upon the face
and find the heart to take the loss,
the patience and a touch of grace
to bear this bitter, lingering cross.

When murmurs come where speech had been,
the laughter gone, the well-turned phrase,
the voice that we delighted in,
the pleasant chats of other days--
though these are stilled, may we recall
the hours we spent, the joy we knew,
the words we shared before this wall
of silence and of sorrow grew.

These hands that flitted over cloth,
or roughened as the wood grew smooth,
that dug the garden, stirred the broth,
sensed when to prod and how to soothe--
God, as we hold now taskless hands,
and help with clothing, care, and food,
we pray the soul may understand
the things we do in gratitude.

O God, this mind we thought so vast
contracts, and simple thoughts go wrong,
yet still it treasures music past:
a wisp of words, a snatch of song.
Within the burdens we must bear
your grace still shines in such small things.
We trust all to your loving care,
rejoicing that the soul still sings.