I wonder...does heaven give mothers
A sort of separate place,
With clothing to mend
And bruises to tend
And tears on a very small face?
And do you suppose there are minutes
In which there is much to be done,
When breakfast is rushed
And curls must be brushed...
Girls sent off to school on the run?
And do you suppose there are kitchens
With boys seeking something to eat,
And pies, cakes, and jells
And heavenly smells,
Sought out by small pattering feet?
And will there be rugs to be walked on
By shoes not too carefully clean,
And fingermarks small
On woodwork and wall,
Right where they are sure to be seen?
And do you suppose there is darkness,
With small figures kneeling in white,
And tales to be told
And covers to fold
And hands to be held very tight?
There must be...for how else would mothers
Find joy that is promised above,
When all of their days
Are spent finding ways
Of serving the children they love?