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THE MOTHER’S HOUR
Little figures robed in white,
Mellow glow of candle light.
Little hands upraised in prayer,
Rosy faces sweet and fair.
All the work and play and fun,
For the happy day are done.
All the little faults confessed,
All the troubles set at rest.
Childhood sweet as dawn and flowers
Drifts through many changeful hours.
But one hour the mother’s own,
Must belong to her alone.
When she sees each sunny head,
Safe and cosy in it’s bed;
Then the world may do its worst.
God and she have had them first;
And her bairns are folded fair
In the tender Shepherd’s care.
Angels bend above the room,
Where the dimpled darlings bloom.
In their lovely innocence,
Warding every evil hence
From the little ones who dwell
Where the mother guards them well.
God ad she above them stand,
They are safe on every hand.
Kneeling for them at the throne,
They are her’s and God’s alone.
And each child a tender flower
Blossoms in the mother’s hour.
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