The hour descends—the patient sleeps in trust,

And mortal hands must wrest what angels fear;

Within  her skull, dark trespass at its  worst,

Beneath the lamp my fated task lies clear.

Each cut I make must serve but never stray—

A prayer in action, disciplined—concise.

Though skill does guide the blade, yet still I pray

That mortal deeds alone will here suffice.

In sterile hush my heart takes up its psalm,

A hymn resounding through each fragile life;

By grace of God, her time I shall prolong—

And wage this quiet war of hope and strife.

Oh God! Let steel and spirit meet as one…

Through human hands, thy will on earth be done.

© Loubert S Suddaby.  All Rights Reserved.