I hold her hand upon her bed, bones brittle, skin thinning and clear.
Tubes and wires about her head, my whole body is shaking in fear.
Cancer came for one so fair, robbing and wrecking her life.
Chemo took her curly hair, and soon she goes under the knife.

“It isn’t fair,” I cry in the dark of night, when my soul lays bared to my God.
“Why her and not me,” I mourn for her plight, “I should walk the path that she’s trod.”
But she doesn’t complain at the needles and pain, as the doctors prepare for theater.
and she quietly goes where nobody knows and she doesn’t rebuke her creator.

It said that saints young and old are not always the valiant and bold.
Yet, I disagree as I’m forced to see her courage as she’s laying there cold.