In the quiet of the sterile room,
Where hope and fear both silently loom,
A figure stands with steady hand,
To heal the hurt across the land.

With wisdom gleaned from years of lore,
And eyes that see beyond the door,
They mend the broken, tend the weak,
In whispered tones their blessings speak.

Each heartbeat saved, each life restored,
A testament to skills adored,
Through nights so long and days so bright,
They fight the shadows, bring forth light.

So let us honor, let us praise,
The healer’s hands in all their ways,
For in their care, both kind and just,
We place our faith, our hope, our trust.