To be a man in grief,
Since “men don’t cry” and “men are strong”
No tears can bring relief.

It must be very difficult
To stand up to the test
And field calls and visitors
So she can get some rest.

They always ask if she’s all right
And what she’s going through,
But seldom take his hand and ask,
“My friend, but how are you?”
He hears her crying in the night
And thinks his heart will break.
He dries her tears and comforts her,
But “stays strong” for her sake.

It must be very difficult
To start each day anew
And try to be so very brave -
He lost his baby too.

“Walk a little plainer Daddy,” said a little child so small.
“I’m following in your footsteps, and I don’t want to fall.
Sometimes your steps are very plain; sometimes they are hard to see;
so walk a little plainer Daddy, for you are leading me.

I know that once you walked this way many years ago;
and what you did along the way I’d really like to know.
For sometimes when I’m tempted, I don’t know what to do;
so walk a little plainer Daddy, for I must follow you.

Someday when I’m grown up, you are like I want to be;
then I will have a little child who will want to follow me.
And I would want to lead just right, and know that I was true;
so walk a little plainer Daddy, for I must follow you.

Bedtime came; we were settling down,
I was holding one of my lads.
As I grasped him so tight, I saw a strange sight:
My hands…they looked like my dad’s!

I remember them well, those old gnarled hooks,
there was always a cracked nail or two.
And thanks to a hammer that strayed from its mark,
his thumb was a beautiful blue!

They were rough, I remember, incredibly tough,
as strong as a carpenter’s vice.
But holding a scared little boy at night,
they seemed to me awfully nice!

The sight of those hands - how impressive it was
in the eyes of his little boy.
Other dads’ hands were cleaner, it seemed
(the effects of their office employ).

I gave little thought in my formative years
of the reason for Dad’s raspy mitts:
The love in the toil, the dirt and the oil,
rusty plumbing that gave those hands fits!

Thinking back, misty-eyed, and thinking ahead,
when one day my time is done.
The torch of love in my own wrinkled hands
will pass on to the hands of my son.

I don’t mind the bruises, the scars here and there
or the hammer that just seemed to slip.
I want most of all when my son takes my hand,
to feel that love lies in the grip

It’s a dad kind of thing to protect you
And see that the world treats you right,
To offer his willing assistance
Any hour of the day or the night.

It’s a dad kind of thing to stand by you
If one of your bubbles should burst,
To make sure you know you’re important
And know that with him you come first.

To give you his all but still wonder
If there’s something more he could do -
It’s a dad kind of thing to keep showing
That he’ll always be there for you.

Father, can you hear me?
Father, can you see me?
Father, can you help me through this night?

Father, are you with me?
I look up at the sky, and wonder why, I feel so alone now.
Father, will you help me, I’m afraid to close my eyes?

Father, can you hear me?
Father, can you see me?
Father, if I sleep now, will you be watching over me this night?

Father, can you hear me?
Father, can you see me?
Father, the world I see is so much larger, than I remember when you were here with me.

Father, can you hear me?
Father, can you see me?
Father, can you help me, stand own my own two feet once more?

Father, I’m on my knees, looking at the sky, looking for your eyes.
Father, I’ve lost my way, Lord, I pray for your guidance once more.
Father, what was your will, Lord, it was not mine.

Father, can you hear me?
Father, can you see me?
Father, as I pray for your will, please come and show me the way, dear Lord I pray.

Amen