Let not the arms of mother’s love despair
For love bestowed does not presume a way
Yet labors on in sweet eternal care,
Sustaining grace through constancy of days;
The wisest son doth make his father proud,
The dullard to his mother’s breast doth cling;
Yet both alike may don the mourner’s shroud
When sorrow to glad hearts flawed breeding bring.
Still, of black shame, who bears the greater scorn—
The bairn whose actions stain his pedigree?
There oft the mother’s heart doth heft the more
Which mocks her worth and work so woefully.
Still, warmest sun and too the sweetest rain
Falls yet upon both flower and weed the same.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.