The Cry of the Mothers
By Lizzie Clark Hardy
My life is so narrow, so narrow, environed by four square walls; And ever across my threshold the shadow of duty falls. My eyes wander oft to the hilltops, but ever my heart stoops down In a passion of love to the babies that helplessly cling to my gown. In the light of a new day dawning I see an evangel stand; And to fields that are ripe for the harvest, I am lured by a beckoning hand. But I have no place with the reapers, no part in the soul-stirring strife; I must hover my babes on the hearthstone, and teach them the lessons of life. I must answer their eager questions with God-given words of truth, I must guide them in ways of wisdom through childhood and early youth; I must nourish their souls and their bodies with infinite, watchful care; Take thought of the loaves and the fishes, and the raiment that they must wear. But at night, when the lessons are over, and I cuddle each sleepy head, When the questions are asked and answered, and the last little prayer is said, When the fruitless unrest has vanished that fretted my heart through the day, Then I kneel in the midst of my children and humbly and thankfully pray: “Dear Lord, when I stand with the reapers before thee at set of the sun, When the sheaves of the harvest are garnered, and life and its labor are done, I shall lay at thy feet these, my children; to my heart and my garments they cling. I may not go forth with the reapers, but these are the sheaves I shall bring.”