Two pictures haunt my memory,
both results of Dad’s four surgeries

They said they had to operate,
Dad’s cancer, of course, couldn’t wait

So they opened a hole in the base of his head,
but it wouldn’t heal; it bled and bled

Then they did again; there was more cancer you see,
and his wound continued to bleed and to bleed

The doctor pondered, he’d take skin from Dad’s side
and graft to that wound no bandage could hide

Dad lay then unable to swallow or eat
In deafening pain only morphine could beat

Until he died in his sleep on the dawning sixth day
And entered his rest for which Jesus had paid