Gentle hands that never weary toiling in love’s
vineyard sweet,
Eyes that seem forever cheery when our eyes
they chance to meet,
Tender, patient, brave, devoted, this is always
mother’s way,
Could her worth in gold be quoted as you think
of her to-day?
There shall never be another quite so tender,
quite so kind
As the patient little mother; nowhere on this
earth you’ll find
Her affection duplicated; none so proud if you
are fine.
Could her worth be overstated? Not by any
words of mine.
Death stood near the hour she bore us, agony
was hers to know,
Yet she bravely faced it for us, smiling in her
time of woe;
Down the years how oft we’ve tried her, often
selfish, heedless, blind,
Yet with love alone to guide her she was never
once unkind.
Vain are all our tributes to her if in words
alone they dwell.
We must live the praises due her; there’s no
other way to tell
Gentle mother that we love her. Would you say,
as you recall
All the patient service of her, you’ve been
worthy of it all?
Other works by Edgar Albert Guest...
