I think so often of Mary -
Mary, the mother glad,
Who lived in the Nazareth cottage

I think of her in the morning
As she put on his little frock
And brushed the curls of his forehead,
Smoothing each shining lock,
And heard him speak with reverence
A little sunrise prayer
With a look of childlike wonder
Upon his face, so fair.

When Joseph had gone to the workshop
The cottage made trim and neat,
And Jesus played with the children
Who lived across the street,
I think the sound of music
Was the echo of his voice,
Which sent her pulses thrilling
And made her heart rejoice.

And when He brought his bruises
For her to touch and kiss
And she smiled away his troubles
With all a mother's bliss -
I think that over her spirit
Stole a promise of endless rest
As she 'magnified the Father'
Who had given her his best.

Then, when the shadows deepened
And the Child, now tired of play,
Rested his head on her bosom
At the close of a weary day,
As she taught him a psalm of praises
And mused on prophecies dear,
I think that the song of angels
Fell on her listening ear.

So I think often of Mary -
Mary, the mother glad,
Who lived in the Nazareth cottage
Where Christ was a little lad.

I thought this was a beautiful poem...and posted it