In my hands I hold a bible, the pages thin and worn.
They once lay in the fragile hands of a woman I adore.
This bible was my Granny’s, her peace and truth and hope.
Promises to comfort her and words to help her cope.
Dates beside the verses for each time she turned the page,
Reminding her what she had read and needed on that day.
Tucked inside the pages, little notes that she had penned,
And clippings from the newspaper of family and friends.
The Psalms were where she seemed to spend a great deal of her time.
Almost every verse is marked, and more than once, I’ll often find.
These poems must have often been a solace in her life,
Whether praising God in joyful times or moments of great strife.
As I turn the pages carefully, I feel her next to me.
And remember how she read this book oh so faithfully.
Assured that in the life she led, she’d find no words were greater
Than the ones revealed in black and red, the truth from our Creator.