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This poem is dedicated to all the mothers who have lost and wayward children. Don't lose your faith in God who can bring them back to the fold..........
"Evening, and morning, and at noon, will I pray,
and cry aloud: and he shall hear my voice."
Psalms 55:17
Where was the mother of the prodigal son
On that day so long ago?
What were her thoughts
And what were her fears
As she watched him turn to go?
How many times in the dark of night
Did the tears slide down her face?
Did she get out of bed
And fall on her knees,
Just to pray that her boy was safe?
How were the days when she did not know
Was he alive? Was he warm? Was he well?
Who were his friends?
And where did he sleep?
Was there anyone there she could tell?
But, oh, on that day
when she looked down the road
As she had looked since her son went away,
Did love unspeakable flood her soul?
Did she cry?
What did she say?
I think when the father had welcomed their son
And the boy had greeted his brother,
That the servants made a path
For him to enter the door
And the waiting arms of his mother.
God's Warrior
Mother's Elbows on My Bed
Author unknown
I was but a youth and thoughtless,
As all youths are apt to be;
Though I had a Christian mother
Who had taught me carefully.
There came a time when pleasure
Of the world came to allure,
And I no more sought the guidance
Of her love so good and pure.
Her tender admonitions fell
But lightly on my ear,
And for the gentle warnings
I felt an inward sneer.
But mother would not yield her boy
To Satan's sinful sway,
And though I spurned her counsel
She knew a better way.
She made my room an altar,
A place of secret prayer,
And there she took her burden
And left it in His care.
And morning, noon and evening
By that humble bedside low,
She sought the aids of Him who
Understands a mother's woe.
And I went my way unheeding,
Careless of the life I led,
Until one day I noticed,
Prints of elbows on my bed.
Then I saw that she had been there
Praying for her wayward boy,
Who for love of worldly pleasure
Would her peace of mind destroy.
Long the conflict raged within me,
Sin against my mother's prayers,
Sin must yield - for Mother never-
While she daily met Him there.
And her constant love and patience
Were like coals upon my head,
Together with the imprints
Of her elbows on my bed.
And so at last the fight was won,
And I to Christ was led,
And mother's prayers were answered
By her elbows on my bed.
