Saturday, May 8, 2010

Portrait of a Mother

She leaves her youth upon the grass
Where all her happy children pass
She dons a robe of greater merit
God will show her how to wear it
For it is such a grand design
Woven by a Hand so fine
Marked by tears of joy and strife
Tender years that form her life
Graciously she bows her head
To wear this cloak of meeker thread

While stages fill and man applauds
The march of fame and lesser gods
She has seen the best there is
In the gleam of good-night kiss
And she has held a greater prize
Shining in her children’s eyes
No wild applause or acclamation
For the hand which molds a nation
Silently she bows her head
And thanks God for His love instead

Her children rise and call her blest
As nature sighs within her breast
Humbly she her will resigns
To the Hand which shapes, refines
While Vanity would stop and gaze
With pity on her love-lined face
She would do it all again
To know she has not lived in vain
For Vanity with all her charms
Can never fill a mother’s arms

No great award, no Hall of Fame
To reward this humble name
Yet there really is no other
Name, as honorable as Mother
So while the years of beauty pass
To shed their petals on the grass
She will thank God for the hours
Where she tended sweeter flowers
In a garden like no other
Reserved for one which we call Mother

All Rights Reserved
Janet Martin

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