A Mother's Praise
Through weary eyes she greets the dawn,
The traces on her face of a night gone wrong.
To tend new life is no simple task,
And each sleepless night stacks upon the last.
She shall receive neither laurel nor laud
For the tears she’s shed and the trials she’s fought.
But no good thing is easily done,
Enduring with love is the weight of her endearing work beneath the sun.
And courage she carries in no small supply;
Each day she shoulders her calling, be it gentle or awry.
No monument will bear her form or name;
She'll receive no grand acclaim nor fame
Yet to one small life she stands above it all
A mother, a hero, deserving of every honor I can call.
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