With heart bowed down with sorrow I view my empty nest,
But when the cross I carry seems heavier than the rest,
I try to think of mothers with greater sorrows pressed.

I think of little children who lie on beds of pain,
Of anxious, weary mothers whose efforts are in vain
To help the little sufferers who’ll never rise again.

I know of many households that have a small wheeled chair;
Of little pairs of crutches some children have to wear,
And of the patient mothers who have this cross to bear.

I think of little children who’ve never seen the light,
To whom this world of sunshine is but a long, dark night,
And of the sad, sad mothers, whose prayer is just for sight.

And then I think of children who never are to hear
The sounds of joy and gladness that seem to us so dear;
Of mothers with this sorrow to bear year after year.

And thinking of these crosses that other mothers bear,
Of all their pain and sorrow, of all their toil and care,
I find the cross I carry is no more than my share.

Gertrude Benedict Curtis
Comforting Words for Sor­row­ing Mo­thers, 1902