Edward Henry Bickersteth (1825-1906 / England)
A Mother to Her Son on His Birthday
A MOTHER TO HER SON ON HIS BIRTHDAY.
Thy natal day returns again,
Full fourteen suns have sped
Since first you woke to sin and pain,
Safe cradled in your bed.
'Twas then my dearest cares began,
My fondest hopes and fears;
To see your baby form a man,
To soothe you mid your tears.
From mid-day sun, from noisome damp,
To shade my darling boy;
To watch the waning flickering lamp,
When sickness did annoy.
To teach thy stubborn will to bend,
To lead thy mind aright;
To pray that God his power would lend,
And make thy virtues bright.
This since thy birth has been my care,
And now I would renew
Again my fondest latest pray'r
For every gift for you.
Implore of Him His grace to give,
His wings of love to spread;—
To teach you early how to live,—
Protect your infant head.
Thy mother's warmest accents hear,
My dearest blessing thou!
Reward her pangs, her cares, her fear;
Receive her dictates now!
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