My Mother's Hands          

When I was small, with fevered brow -
Well, days were different then;
My Mother came throughout the night
With medicine to give.
She brought a cloth and washed my face -
Her bedside style was grand -
And oh, the comfort brought to me
When Mamma washed my hands!

Throughout my life I've valued her -
Those ways of peace and love;
Her constant help, unfailing faith
In that One up above.
When I would fear or fail or fall
Her words were straight and real;
And when in darkest night I groped,
'Twas Mamma's hand I'd feel.

She taught me well to stand beside
The children born to me -
And keep my hand within their reach
What e'er their need might be.
...Her steps these years are faltering....
Lord, help me as I stand
To have a warm, sweet, patient touch
As I hold Mamma's hand.

Joan Clifton Costner