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To My Mother March 7, 2010

Mattie writes, “I wrote this and sent it to my mother on the last Mother’s Day before her death in 1923.”

Her step is slow and feeble,
Her hands unsteady now-
And paler still, and deeper
The lines upon her brow.
Her mild blue eyes have faded,
Her hair has lost its gold;
Her once firm voice now falters.
My mother’s growing old.
My thoughts turn back to childhood
Where fondled on her knee,
I poured out all my sorrows,
Or sang my songs of glee.
But now upon me leaning,
So wearily and old,
With trembling voice she murmurs,
“Dear child, I’m growing old”.
I think of all her teachings
So precious in my youth;
How faithfully she taught me
God’s sacred words of truth.
How tenderly she led me
To Jesus’ blessed fold,
Where she will soon be welcomed
No longer bowed and old.
Her hands with useful labor
Each day some mission told;
Her deeds like heavenly roses
Still bloom, though she is old.
Alas, those hands so useful,
Which toiled with loving grace
To make me blessed with comfort,
And home a happy place.
Those hands so worn and wrinkled
By time are now controlled.
They rest with prayerful quiet,
Dear Mother’s growing old.
Yet though her earthly temple
Still faileth day by day,
Her soul with faith increasing
Pursues its heavenward way.
And when the mists of Jordan
When shall from her sight be rolled,
She’ll shine with youth and beauty
No longer bowed and old.
OI Mother! Fond and faithful
Thou truest earthly friend,
May I be near to soothe thee
When all life’s sorrows end.
And when my sad heart yearning,
Thy form my arms enfold,
I pray in peace to meet thee
Where Saints ne’er grow old.

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