Mother's Growing Old

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Jun 6, 1878

Mother's Growing Old.

HER step is slow and weary; Her hand's unsteady now, And paler still and deeper The lines upon her brow; Her meek, blue eye has faded; Her hair has lost its gold; Her once firm voice now falters— My mother's growing old.

My thoughts flow back to childhood, When fondled on her knee, I poured out all my sorrows, Or lisped my songs of glee; But now upon me leaning So wearily and cold, With trembling lips she murmurs, "Dear child, I'm growing old."

I think of all her counsels, So precious to my youth; How sacredly she taught me God's precious word of truth; How tenderly she led me, To Jesus' blessed fold— Her deeds like heavenly roses, Still bloom, though she is old.

Alas! those hands so skillful, Which told with loving grace To make me blessed with comforts, And home a happy place; Those dear hands pale and wrinkled Are now by time controlled; They rest in prayerful quiet— Dear mother's growing old.

O mother fond and faithful, Thou truest earthly friend, May I be near to soothe thee Till all thy struggles end; And while, with sad heart yearning, Thy form my arms enfold, I pray in peace to meet thee Where saints no more grow old.