My Mother by Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Mar 3, 1909

My Mother.

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle.

My mother; still the same, the same As when I was a wayward child; Still sweeter grows that blessed name, And dearer seems thy presence mild. Time’s wasting fingers only throw A sacred halo o’er thy form; Ah, gladly would I make my breast Thy shelter from each blighting storm.

And if my waywardness hath caused One little furrow on thy brow, One silver thread among thy locks, My mother, O forgive me now. Ah! could I hear the echoing clod Fall o’er my mother’s lowly bed, And meekly kiss the chastening rod, E’en while my heart with anguish bled?

Away, sad thought; thou mayest not die; Mayhap ere then our Lord will come; Thou mayest, like Enoch, to the sky Be caught up to thy blissful home, Translated! O the rapturous thought! Eternal joy, eternal rest,— Where earth’s dull cares perplex thee not,— Translated to thy Saviour’s breast!

All through these bright, unchanging years, I’ll love the one who gave me birth, And ever fondly cherish still The same dear mother, loved on earth.