Mother Time

MOTHER TIME They tell me Father Time is old, and wrinkled, bent, and gray; He carries o'er his arm a scythe to cut all from his way; That he is stern, is cold, is harsh, and justice strictly wields; That all he leaves behind him are bare wastes and empty fields. This may be true, I do not know, so, for it cannot vouch; But his good wife, old Mother Time, will rise from off her couch To do a kindly deed to all who seek relief from pain, And in her sympathetic way repeats the deed again. There is no heart-wound cut so deep she cannot give it ease, And with her balm and bandages will cause its pain to cease. She may not cure it, through and through, and leave behind no scar; But she will strive and labor long that there shall be no mar Or pain behind, still lingering, that cannot be assuaged. And so each wound, each grief, each trial is lessened as 'tis aged. O Mother Time, I love you for your sympathy and care; But remove not from my heart, I pray, all that lingers there! Gazelam.