On memory’s wall engraven stands
My mother’s precious face;
Time’s rude and ever busy hands
Naught from it can erase.
My mother’s face, her precious face,
In memory lives today;
Time’s hand some pictures may erase,
Her face ne’er fades away.
The clouds from sorrow’s dreary night
Oft o’er face would drift;
But faith, which shone so clear and bright,
Those sable clouds would lift.
I saw her face in death grow cold,
I saw it laid away;
But yet methinks I still behold,
That same sweet face today.
When in the haunts of sin I strayed,
Lo! mother’s face was there;
That look made gilded pleasures fade,
I sought the house of prayer.
Some day within yon gates of gold,
Thro’ grace my feet shall stand;
There mother’s face I will behold,
Amid the blood washed band.