A Strong, Godly Mother

My wonderful grandfather, Daniel F Wilson, was the most prolific poet in our family to date.  I don't have a total count of his works, (because there are duplicates and the poems are written in hard-to-read, old-timey cursive, in pencil)  But my estimate is 230 - 250 poems.

As his mother before him (Mary W Cox) and his daughter after him (Erma W Walker) he had a sentimental spot when it came to mothers.  This is his poem in tribute to the way his mother courageously cared for the family, with God's help, after her husband's premature death in 1894.

Mother

Our dear mother is now at rest

She is now in heaven with the blest

The Savior called and she could not stay

An angel guided her on her way

Many years have come and gone

Since Father left her side

But she bravely carried on

With Jesus for her guide.

She is happy now we know

But we dreaded to see her go

With long life she was greatly blest

And has earned a blessed rest.

Now with father reunited

She will be so happy and delighted

And the friend that went before

Will greet her on that golden shore.

She was so cheerful and so gay

We would have her always stay

Now on this Christmas morn

We are so sad and forlorn.

But we know that she will wait

To greet us at the pearly gate

There on the golden street

Her brothers and sisters she often will meet.

There in her mountain retreat

In her cottage clean and neat

With the vines around the door;

When our work is done

And the Sabbath begun

She will greet us smiling as of yore.

by Daniel F Wilson

written 1946-47

Mary, Daniel, Jonathan and Ella Wilson in 1883

The Privilege of Being a Mother

I come from a literary family. They write poems in small notebooks, in odd hours, and stuff them in drawers.  They never publish anything, never make any money, and never think that they are talented.  Nevertheless, the testaments remain.  Passed down in the family by those who are more interested in family history than in literature, these works have accumulated to something of a body by my generation.  I type them, gather them, treasure them, tell my children about them -- and now finally -- share them.

This poem was written by my aunt, my mother's only sibling.  She had only one child. After reading this poem you may think, as I do, that being a mother was the high point of her life.  

If you are a mother, pat yourself on the back.  You have accomplished the most important job of your life!!!

The Privilege of Being a Mother

She passed me on the street one day

Dressed in her silks and furs,

The dog that trotted on her leash

Was not a common cur,

He boasted ancestors on each side

With a mile long pedigree.

Yet a stab of pity filled my heart,

Though a wealthy woman is she.

Her husband is a kindly man

Generous, loving and true,

Her home is quite luxurious

With broad lands and a beautiful view,

She owns diamonds and jewels rare,

Each worth a princely sum,

But no childish laughter fills the halls

Of the mansion she calls home.

I do not envy her her wealth,

Nor long to take her place,

My jewels rare are two blue eyes

In a laughing, childish face,

My precious gems are ruby lips

And ringlets of golden hair,

Compared to my great treasure,

Her life seems cold and bare.

She has never felt soft, dimpled arms

Around her neck entwined,

Nor held a little hand in hers

With a love that’s undefined,

She has never had a curly head

Laid gently on her breast

With two bright eyes gazing into hers

In confidence and trust.

Would she like a child? I asked myself,

Ah! yes, I think she would

But an unkind Fate denied to her

The joys of motherhood,

And I think if the truth were ever known,

In spite of the fuss and the bother,

She would exchange her wealth and her beautiful home.

For the privilege of being a mother.

Erma I. Walker

10-31-46

Mother

Do you miss your mother?  Did she bandage your cuts, wipe your tears, tell you stories, and kiss you goodnight?  Did she bring you cups of tea, teach you how to cook, or--most important of all--teach you how to find saving faith in Jesus Christ?  If she has gone on ahead to her eternal home, and you can't kiss her and thank her this Mother's Day, here is a poem of tribute -- and of Hope.

Write and tell me if it touches you.  It was written by my great grandmother Mary Cox (1843-1931), in memory of her mother, Sarah Jane Earhart (1817-1870).

Mother

Friends may depart and foes arise,

Christ’s love is just the same;

He never, never will forsake,

Those who are trusting in His name.

Oh! What a blessed hope is ours,

What meditation sweet,

To know that we will meet again, Mother

When life’s journey is complete.

Our thoughts are turning backward,

To childhood’s winsome years,

When we always ran to Mother,

With all our joys and fears.

We would go to her when tired,

To get the needed rest;

We would go to her when wounded,

To get a fond caress.

And when we were sick or troubled,

We would go to her for aid;

And though it would be dark around,

We never felt afraid.

As backward on the wings of time,

We fly to her embrace;

We see her face all bright to shine,

Of tears there is no trace.

Written in love by

Mary W. Cox

1843-1931

Tribute to Christian Mothers

Everyone is talking about mothers this week.  Since mine has gone on to be with Jesus, I think of all the women who have "mothered" me.  Right now I am thinking of the Christian heritage that has come from my grandmother and great grandmother.

My great grandmother, Mary Wilson Cox (1847-1931) was a remarkable women whose influence cast a very long shadow in my family.  In an age when women "stayed home," she was a church planter, inspirational speaker, midwife, teacher, and poet, to name a few.  Five of her poems remain to us.  Here is one in which she praises her mother for the Heritage of Faith that she passed down.


Thoughts of Mother

Our thoughts go back to Mother,
To that cottage on the knoll,
Where we knelt each night in prayer,
For the strengthening of the soul.

Our thoughts go back to Mother,
As she read God’s Holy Book,
And then we often wondered,
Why such pleasure in it took.

But when we gave our heart to God,
We learned to love it too,
Because we knew within our own heart,
That God’s blessed word was true.

Our thoughts go back to Mother,
As she sat in the rocking-chair,
And sang with sweet abandon,
There is no sorrow there.

Our thoughts go back to Mother,
As each Sabbath rolls around,
And we with our friends and neighbors,
In the church pew we were found.

We are thinking, dearest Mother,
Of the many who sought and found the Lord,
And many who long since have gone,
To gain their rich reward.

We will ne’er forget you, Mother,
Though our hair is turning gray,
And our eyes are not as bright perhaps,
As in our youthful day.

Our feet are not as fleet as when,
We used to walk together,
To church and prayer meetings,
No difference what the weather.

Our voice is not as strong, me-thinks,
As when we would so often sing,
And meet with one accord so oft,
To praise our Heavenly King.

But Christ is just the same, Mother,
As in the days of yore;
He will guide and keep us to the end,
And save us ever-more.

By Mary W. Cox
1847-1931