TIRED HANDS by clarence hawkes folded they lie upon her tranquil breast my aly mothers tired hands their labor done knotted and scarred in battles they have won worn to the quick by loves unkind behest they lie while from the crimson west A flood of glory from the setting sun shines on her face I 1 hear the deep well done god gods s angelus that calls her soul to rest found is the holy grail of knightly quest here in her home where such brave deeds were done As knight neer saw since chivalry begun she suffered toiled and died god knows the rest and if christs crown shines not above her cross then all is loss immeasurable loss