The little mother to many I saw through the open door, And her patient face, on that weary day, was as white as the gown she wore. (I thought of earth's gentlest mother, and the little Son she bore. ) It was a wailing and helpless thing she cradled upon her knees; The puckered face bore the bitter stamp of Poverty and disease. (There was the mother of Him who said: "Unto the least of these." ) She lifted the head of the tiny thing and laid it against her cheek, And her eyes were full of a greater love than her lips will ever speak. (So Mary must often have held her Son, when He was little and weak.) Dear little mother to many, there through the open door, Mending the broken body, healing the open sore, The gentlest of all earth's mothers, herself, could have done no more. |
The Call of Kansas and Other Poems
Esther M. (Clark) Hill
(Cedar Rapids: Torch Press. __)
Page 32
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