My Mother's Bible

This book is all that's left me now,Tears will unbidden start;With faltering lip and throbbing brow,I press it to my heart;For many generations pastHere is our family tree;My mother's hands this Bible clasped;She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember thoseWhose names these records bear;Who round the hearth-stone used to close,After the evening prayer,And speak of what these pages said,In tones my heart would thrill!Tho' they are with the silent deadYet are they living still.

My father read this holy bookTo brothers, sisters, dear;—How calm was my poor mother's look,Who loved God's word to hear.Her angel face—I see it yet!What thronging memories come!Again that little group is met,Within the walls of home.

Thou truest friend man ever knew,Thy constancy I've tried;When all were false I've found thee trueMy counsellor and guide.The mines of earth no treasures giveThat could this volume buy—In teaching me the way to live,It taught me how to die.