Forgive my verse's poverty
Since death points up the paucity
Of anything I claim of skill.
But what to you was bitter night
For me was cloud to shade my way;
Even my deepest empathy
Inevitably must be trite.
Though I am poor, One who is rich
Was watching with you in the dark
And from that night He left His mark -
His perfectly embroidered stitch.
He is the One who loves to dote
Upon this product of His own,
Rejoicing in the sweeter tone
And timbre of a well-tuned note.