Mother! Mother! Mother!
(Archibald Brown, "Better than a Mother!")
Mother! Mother! Mother!
What associations of loving tenderness
are in the very name, Mother!
The word touches a secret spring
in the heart, and conjures back scenes
of the past. It brings to view in the dim
distance, a sweet face that used to bend
over our little bed at eventide, and
impress a kiss upon our brow.
It reminds us of one who used
to smile when we were happy--
and weep when obliged to correct us.
It calls to remembrance one who always
seemed interested in our little tales
of adventure, and never laughed at our
little sorrows that seemed so large to us.
Mother!
It was her face we gazed last upon,
when we went away to school. And it was
into her arms that we first rushed, when
the holidays brought us home.
Mother!
It was the thought of her that held us
back from sin with unseen silken cords!
And when those dark locks of hers became
silvered with advancing age, we only thought
an extra charm had crowned her brow.
With many present, that mother has long
since fallen asleep in her SAVIOR'S arms--
but you did not forget the love that was as
strong as death, and escaped from her dying
lips in words that you treasure to this day.
Forget? No!
Her name still has a magic power, and
the tears I see rolling down so many
cheeks this morning are eloquent in
their language. They declare that at
least one word has neither lost its music
or its charm, and that one word is, mother.
I think I cannot better show the hold
the memory has of a mother upon a man,
than by quoting the words of Archibald
Thompson. He says, "Mother!!
How many delightful associations
cluster around that word.
When my heart aches at the world's
wickedness, and my limbs are weary,
and my feet bloody, traveling
the thorny path of life--
I am accustomed to sit down on some
mossy stone, and closing my eyes on
real scenes, to send my thoughts
back to the days of early life--
and in all these reminiscences,
my mother arises.
If I seat myself upon my cushion,
it is at her side; if I sing, it is to her ears;
if I walk the meadows, my little hand
is in my mother's, and my little feet
keep company with hers; if I stand
and listen to the piano, it is because
my mother's fingers touch the keys;
if I survey the wonders of creation,
it is my mother who points out
the object of my admiring attention.
There is . . .
no velvet so soft as a mother's lap,
no rose so lovely as her smile,
no path so flowery as that
imprinted with her footsteps."
(Archibald Brown, "Better than a Mother!")
Mother! Mother! Mother!
What associations of loving tenderness
are in the very name, Mother!
The word touches a secret spring
in the heart, and conjures back scenes
of the past. It brings to view in the dim
distance, a sweet face that used to bend
over our little bed at eventide, and
impress a kiss upon our brow.
It reminds us of one who used
to smile when we were happy--
and weep when obliged to correct us.
It calls to remembrance one who always
seemed interested in our little tales
of adventure, and never laughed at our
little sorrows that seemed so large to us.
Mother!
It was her face we gazed last upon,
when we went away to school. And it was
into her arms that we first rushed, when
the holidays brought us home.
Mother!
It was the thought of her that held us
back from sin with unseen silken cords!
And when those dark locks of hers became
silvered with advancing age, we only thought
an extra charm had crowned her brow.
With many present, that mother has long
since fallen asleep in her SAVIOR'S arms--
but you did not forget the love that was as
strong as death, and escaped from her dying
lips in words that you treasure to this day.
Forget? No!
Her name still has a magic power, and
the tears I see rolling down so many
cheeks this morning are eloquent in
their language. They declare that at
least one word has neither lost its music
or its charm, and that one word is, mother.
I think I cannot better show the hold
the memory has of a mother upon a man,
than by quoting the words of Archibald
Thompson. He says, "Mother!!
How many delightful associations
cluster around that word.
When my heart aches at the world's
wickedness, and my limbs are weary,
and my feet bloody, traveling
the thorny path of life--
I am accustomed to sit down on some
mossy stone, and closing my eyes on
real scenes, to send my thoughts
back to the days of early life--
and in all these reminiscences,
my mother arises.
If I seat myself upon my cushion,
it is at her side; if I sing, it is to her ears;
if I walk the meadows, my little hand
is in my mother's, and my little feet
keep company with hers; if I stand
and listen to the piano, it is because
my mother's fingers touch the keys;
if I survey the wonders of creation,
it is my mother who points out
the object of my admiring attention.
There is . . .
no velvet so soft as a mother's lap,
no rose so lovely as her smile,
no path so flowery as that
imprinted with her footsteps."
~ ~ ~ ~
GraceGems has just published Archibald Brown's sermon,
"Better than a Mother!"
This is a superb devotional sermon about GOD'S motherly care for HIS redeemed children!
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