She did not have a Bible
I never saw her pray
For years she labored silent
Until that welcome day
We wandered on cold byways
As she began to talk
Of memories long treasured
We walked and walked and walked
She's long gone from those byways
Though leaving traces there
Of one meek wife and mother
Who labored with much care
She did not talk of Jesus
Nor did I hear her shout
Of chapters or epistles
Soul food for the devout
I sit beside my window
Where waves of night grow dim
And ask a simple question
Who lived most close to Him?
Of all the great faith healers
And sisters who lay hands
I still feel that my mother
Meshed closest with His bands.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem