MOTHER'S HANDS
Dear gentle hands have stroked my hair
And cooled my brow,
Soft hands that pressed me close
And seemed to know somehow
Those fleeting moods and erring thoughts
That cloud my day,
Which quickly melt beneath their suffrage
And pass away.
And cooled my brow,
Soft hands that pressed me close
And seemed to know somehow
Those fleeting moods and erring thoughts
That cloud my day,
Which quickly melt beneath their suffrage
And pass away.
No other balm for earthly pain
Is half so sure,
No sweet caress as filled with love
Nor half so pure.
No other soul so close akin that understands,
No touch that brings such perfect peas as Mother's hands.
-- W. Dayton Wedgefarth
Is half so sure,
No sweet caress as filled with love
Nor half so pure.
No other soul so close akin that understands,
No touch that brings such perfect peas as Mother's hands.
-- W. Dayton Wedgefarth
And she is finally at rest. My mom. At 84.
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