him, Mother, when he comes home,
him and cradle him like once he had known.
his poor tired brow be rubbed and be stroked,
your strong mother hands now lift off his yoke.
him, Mother, it has been many years,
needs you again to quiet his fears.
patiently waited for your beautiful son,
ached for him, Mother, and now he has come.
were his "best girl," he often so
He, your "best boy," you so designated.
carried him, Mother, while yet a young lady,
many years later, he still is your baby.
hands may be gnarled; his hair may be gray,
he's a child to his mother, even today.
struggle at last is now laid to rest,
him, dear Mother, to the heart he knows best.
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