For thee, my son, a mother’s earnest prayer
Rises to Heaven each day from heart sincere,
Anxiously seeking what concerns thee most;
Not merely earthly good for thee she prays,
Knowledge, or wealth, or fame, or length of days,
What shall these profit, if the soul be lost.
In this life we find alternate day and night,
Not always darkness, sure not always light;
’Tis well it should be so, we’re travellers here,
Home, that “sweet home,” the Christian’s place of rest,