O woman, is thy mother’s heart
Full often sore distressed,
When gazing on thy little ones,
Close folded to thy breast?
Dear as they are, and lovely too,
As spring’s first blossoms fair,
Thou knowest beneath their comeliness,
Sin’s deadly germs are there.
Fain wouldst thou shield thy babes from harm,
For them, thy life resign;
But, oh, how feeble is thine arm,
How weak all strength of thine!
“What futures will my loved ones make?”
The thought thy mind employs;
Will they thy heart with anguish break,
Or crown thy head with joys?
Mother, thou hast a refuge near,
Jesus, the virgin’s child;
Who trod Himself earth’s deserts drear,
Holy, and undefiled.
He lay upon a woman’s breast,
He lisped a mother’s name.
And childhood, youth, and manhood blessed,
Who child and man became.
Mother, behold thy Savior’s face,
His hands and feet and side;
Canst thou not trust His love and grace
Who for thy dear ones died?
Oh, lay those tender lambs of thine
On that kind Shepherd’s breast;
Their future to His care resign,
And in His wisdom rest.
Mother, how multiplied thy joy,
What solace to thy fears;
To train them now, thy sweet employ,
To serve in coming years;
Still look to Him, and trust, and pray,
Who has the work begun;
“E’en as thou wilt,” still hear Him say,
“Woman, it shall be done.”
J. G. Deck