Mother
Each day to her a miracle,
—Fresh from her Father's hand;
She bore with patience every grief
—She could not understand.
The ears of others were her own,
—Their joys of hers a part;
The lonely never were alone
—Close to her tender heart.
No more along life's rugged path
—Her tired feet must roam,
For she, who made of home a Heaven,
—Wakes—to find Heaven her home!
Each day to her a miracle,
Fresh from her Father's hand;
She bore with patience every grief
She could not understand.
The ears of others were her own,
Their joys of hers a part;
The lonely never were alone
Close to her tender heart.
No more along life's rugged path
Her tired feet must roam,
For she, who made of home a Heaven,
Wakes—to find Heaven her home!
—Fresh from her Father's hand;
She bore with patience every grief
—She could not understand.
The ears of others were her own,
—Their joys of hers a part;
The lonely never were alone
—Close to her tender heart.
No more along life's rugged path
—Her tired feet must roam,
For she, who made of home a Heaven,
—Wakes—to find Heaven her home!
Each day to her a miracle,
Fresh from her Father's hand;
She bore with patience every grief
She could not understand.
The ears of others were her own,
Their joys of hers a part;
The lonely never were alone
Close to her tender heart.
No more along life's rugged path
Her tired feet must roam,
For she, who made of home a Heaven,
Wakes—to find Heaven her home!
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.