Mothers

MOTHER'S

A message to the young

In her cupped hand

She holds your heart;

Holding it gently

From the start.

She sees such beauty in the clay

And tenderly fashions it

Day by day.

No artist could

More careful be

Than the mother who cares

Most lovingly.

And if perchance

You make mistakes

And your poor vessel

Cracks and breaks

She'll gather the pieces

Though scattered and sharp

And mend them with prayers

That come from the heart.

But mothers, as potters,

Are clumsy and weak;

Their touch, though imperfect

Is of love strong and deep.

Her hands are enfolded 

In God's Hands kind and strong

That will temper her efforts
All your life long.