Portrait of a Mother

She leaves her youth upon the grass
Where all her happy children pass
She dons a robe of profound merit
God will show her how to wear it
Its filament is firm yet mild
Woven by fingers of a child
Marked by the tears of joy and strife 

And quickened years that form her life
Graciously she bows her head
To wear this cloak of meeker thread

While stages fill and man applauds
The march of fame and lesser gods
She has known the best there is
In childish hugs and good-night kiss
And she has seen love's fairest prize

Gleaming in her children’s eyes
No wild applause or acclamation
For the hand which holds a nation
Silently she bows her head
And trusts God for His faithful lead

Her children rise and call her blessed

To recognize earth's utter-best
As humbly she her will resigns
To Hands which brush her face with lines
While Vanity would stop and gaze
With pity on her love-lined face
She would do it all again
To know she has not loved in vain
For Vanity with all its charms
Can never fill a mother’s arms

No great award, no Hall of Fame
To reward this humble name
Yet there can never be another
Name, as honorable as Mother
So while the buxom hours pass
To shed their petals on the grass
She will thank God for the hours
Where she tended sweeter flowers
In a garden like no other
Reserved for one which we call Mother

Janet Martin