She played one more time for Papa,
as to make the Angels weep.
His frail, arthritic hand,
upon the bed rail, tapped a beat.

His rhuemy eyes in sunken cheeks,
never waivers from her face.
His blue lips in silent tribute,
sang the words to Amazing Grace.

Her eyes closed to the rapture,
her Violin did sing.
She did not see, yet she felt,
when Papa stopped breathing.