| |
| (A true example of my own |
| mother's concern for her
children.) |
| |
| The Bible is a precious Book |
| No matter if it's large or small |
| But I believe my Mother's Bible |
| Was more precious than them all. |
| |
| How well I remember how us kids |
| My brothers, my sisters and me |
| Used to get together at the close of day |
| And gather at my Mother's knee. |
| |
| Sometimes we'd talk a little while |
| About things that happened thru the day |
| Then she'd say, "Get my Bible down |
| I'll read to you and then we'll pray." |
| |
| And though there were just five of us |
| Three brothers, my sister and me |
| There were very often extra heads |
| As we gathered at my Mother's knee. |
| |
| For often our friends and neighbors |
| Who came to our home to play |
| Never heard the Bible read at home |
| And would ask if they could stay. |
| |
| I thought her Bible was ugly and cluttered |
| Its pages all written on and torn |
| A bit of hair, a faded flower |
| Its covers were all ragged and worn. |
| |
| But when she'd open it carefully |
| And begin to read to us there |
| Her face would take on a radiant look |
| Her voice an angelic air. |
| |
| And then I remember at Christmas time |
| The ladies whose class she taught |
| Gave her a brand new Bible |
| Which they had lovingly bought. |
| |
| She carried it proudly to church with her |
| And gave it the best of care |
| But when she'd say, "Bring my Bible" |
| T'was the old one we handed her. |
| |
| Mother's eyes are dim and faded now |
| Her mind is somewhat confused |
| And I don't really know what happened |
| To that worn out Bible we used. |
| |
| But the mem'ries of those precious days |
| I spent at Mother's knee |
| With that dear old tear-stained Bible |
| Shall be mine throughout eternity. |
