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His hands were young and eager When Grandpa chose his trade, And grew in strength and honed his skills With every course he laid. Until his box was filled with more Than tools to work the stone; Security he found therein With means to be his own. He built with true integrity And such he taught his son, As side by side the things they built Were bridges every one. I've never touched those callused hands; He died, but not before His hands reached out to touch my life, This bridge I can't ignore. Those trowels, floats, and strikers, In more than just one way, Were tools that built foundations That still stand firm today. The will to work, creation's joy; To face a duty square; Are traits passed on and make me proud His honored name to bear.
Wes Stephenson

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