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.