It was not mine, that hand that rocked the cradle,
Though I perchance did touch it once or twice;
It was the finer one God made more able—
To be a mother and a loving wife.
The one whose face, now lined by smiles and tears,
Fond heart replete with love and kindness fair
That stood steadfast through life’s enduring fears,
Soft clad in courage, yet beyond compare.
Our children have now gone to brave their way,
To stake their claims upon the world so wide;
Sweet memories—the blazon that they wave
On which is writ our hope and all our pride.
Though for my part, I did but what I ought—
Awestruck to see the wonders that she wrought.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.
Loubert S Suddaby poems 