Now and at the Hour
We entered in the hospice room
where Mother lay alone.
By the scourge of this last illness
she'd been reduced to skin and bone.
Now at peace from suffering,
Her visage fairly shone.
The well worn beads
clasped in her hand
had helped her journey home.
'Now and at the Hour..'
a fragment of a childhood prayer.
Now and the hour
were joined together
in She for whom I cared.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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