MY MOTHER
She was tall with dark eyes and high forehead.
She was quiet––she put on no airs.
Her forehead was wrinkled from worry.
No wonder––she had many cares.
And oft when I go back in memory,
She was tall with dark eyes and high forehead.
She was quiet––she put on no airs.
Her forehead was wrinkled from worry.
No wonder––she had many cares.
And oft when I go back in memory,
I think of her work day by day.
I think of how each morn without failure,
Dad would come home to her bedroom and say,
"Come on, Jane, the teakettle's boiling."
And that was her signal to rise,
And stir up the mush for our breakfast,
And try to get us to do likewise.
Her life was a lifetime of labor.
Each day brought its own work to do.
There was washing and ironing and mending,
And choring and gardening, too.
There was sewing and sweeping and cooking.
She just seemed to never stand still.
And often things must have looked useless,
Like pushing a load up a hill.
But she kept on; no work was too tiring.
No task seemed too heavy to bear.
So long as she had strength to do it,
If worked called, she always was there.
Nine children she raised––what a mission!
One was called back a long time ago,
Leaving sorrow to add to her burdens.
What she suffered we never shall know.
Let us build on the start that she gave us,
In her failings find ways to improve.
For we know she would like nothing better,
Than to have us united in love.
(Written about my mother, Lara Jane Morris Wright)
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MY BABY
God gave her to me and I love her,
this dear little baby of mine.
Her face is as pure as an angel's.
Her eyes like stardust shine.
And when in my arms she is sleeping,
a feeling steals o'er my soul,
A feeling of awe and of reverence,
a love that knows not control.
And I pray in my heart for guidance,
that God will help me to be,
Forever aware that this baby's care,
is a privilege given to me.
I ask Him to make me worthy,
of the soul I'm entrusted to.
I ask Him to make me equal,
to the tasks that I needs must do.
As I hold her yet more closely,
my heart is torn with fears.
When I think of life's rugged pathway,
as she toddles along the years.
How I long to smooth that pathway,
and pluck out the thorns that tear.
How I long to remove temptation,
and leave only goodness there.
Could I strew her path with roses,
make all things pure and sweet.
My soul would lose it's anguish,
My joy would be complete.
But I know God watches over,
my sweet baby, day by day.
And with humble spirit,
can only kneel and pray.
Then I think of gentle Mary,
of the sacrifice she stood.
And something whispers softly,
"Have faith, for God is good."
I think of how each morn without failure,
Dad would come home to her bedroom and say,
"Come on, Jane, the teakettle's boiling."
And that was her signal to rise,
And stir up the mush for our breakfast,
And try to get us to do likewise.
Her life was a lifetime of labor.
Each day brought its own work to do.
There was washing and ironing and mending,
And choring and gardening, too.
There was sewing and sweeping and cooking.
She just seemed to never stand still.
And often things must have looked useless,
Like pushing a load up a hill.
But she kept on; no work was too tiring.
No task seemed too heavy to bear.
So long as she had strength to do it,
If worked called, she always was there.
Nine children she raised––what a mission!
One was called back a long time ago,
Leaving sorrow to add to her burdens.
What she suffered we never shall know.
Let us build on the start that she gave us,
In her failings find ways to improve.
For we know she would like nothing better,
Than to have us united in love.
(Written about my mother, Lara Jane Morris Wright)
------------------------------------------------------
MY BABY
God gave her to me and I love her,
this dear little baby of mine.
Her face is as pure as an angel's.
Her eyes like stardust shine.
And when in my arms she is sleeping,
a feeling steals o'er my soul,
A feeling of awe and of reverence,
a love that knows not control.
And I pray in my heart for guidance,
that God will help me to be,
Forever aware that this baby's care,
is a privilege given to me.
I ask Him to make me worthy,
of the soul I'm entrusted to.
I ask Him to make me equal,
to the tasks that I needs must do.
As I hold her yet more closely,
my heart is torn with fears.
When I think of life's rugged pathway,
as she toddles along the years.
How I long to smooth that pathway,
and pluck out the thorns that tear.
How I long to remove temptation,
and leave only goodness there.
Could I strew her path with roses,
make all things pure and sweet.
My soul would lose it's anguish,
My joy would be complete.
But I know God watches over,
my sweet baby, day by day.
And with humble spirit,
can only kneel and pray.
Then I think of gentle Mary,
of the sacrifice she stood.
And something whispers softly,
"Have faith, for God is good."
