Mamma’s Hands

by | Jun 3, 1999 | Grief, Parenting, Poem

When I was small, with fevered brow …
Well, days were different then.
Mamma came, throughout the night,
With medicine to give.

She brought a cloth and washed my face.
Her bedside style was grand.
And, oh, the comfort brought to me,
When Mamma washed my hands!

Throughout my life, I’ve valued her,
Those ways of peace and love;
Her constant help, unfailing faith
In that One up above.

When I would fear, or fail, or fall
Her words were straight and real.
And when in darkest night I groped,
‘Twas Mamma’s hand I’d feel.

She taught me, well, to stand beside
The children born to me
And keep my hand within their reach,
What e’er their need might be.

Her steps, these years, are faltering.
Lord, help me, as I stand,
To have a warm, sweet, patient touch,
As I hold Mamma’s hand.

© by Joan Clifton Costner 


Mamma’s Hands