Richard L. Merila
My Mother's Hands - Poem by Richard L. Merila
My Mother's hands, oh, the memories of them bring a sadness to my soul!
Aged, wrinkled and worn, My Mother's hands; oh, the memories, how I love them so
The coolness of my Mother's hands upon my fevered brow...
My Mother's hands, where are they now?
A time to be remembered; a time to be forgotten;
The memories as my mother's hands held me, broken.
A time to cherish, a time to adore.
The memories of my Mother's hands when I came back from war.
Injured from service in faraway lands,
I was soothed with the touch of my Mother's hands.
I know My Mother's hands were folded in prayer at my bed.
I felt the Spirits touch caress my heated head.
My Mother's hands built her soldier, who lay like dead.
My Mother's hands upon my wounded head.
To love my God with all my heart;
To love my neighbor, her lesson will never depart!
Once fallen, I live to serve again
In another Force, that will have no end.
My Mother's hands, so used of God, I have no fear
Will touch me again in that land so dear.
Comments about My Mother's Hands by Richard L. Merila
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye