Motherís Elbows On My BedI was but a youth and thoughtless,
As all youth are apt to be,
Though I had a Christian mother
Who had taught me carefully.
But there came a time when pleasures
Of the world came to allure,
And I no more sought the guidance
Of her love so good and pure.
But mother would not yield her boy
To Satanís sinful sway,
And though I spurned her counsel
She knew a better way.
No more she tried to caution
Of ways she knew were vain,
And though I guessed her heartache
I could not know its pain.
She made my room her altar,
A place of secret prayer,
And there she took her burden
And left it in His care.
And morning, noon, and evening
By that humble bedside low,
She sought the aid of Him, who
Best can understand a motherís woe.
And I went my way unheeding,
Careless of the life I led,
Until one day I noticed
Prints of elbows on my bed.
Then I knew that she had been there,
Praying for her wayward boy,
Who for the love of worldly pleasure
Would her peace of mind destroy.
While I wrestled with my conscience,
Mother wrestled still in prayer,
Till that little room seemed hallowed
Because so oft she met Him there.
With her God she held her fortress,
And though not a word she said,
My stubborn heart was broken
By those imprints on my bed.
Long the conflict raged within me,
Sin against my motherís prayer.
Sin must yield, for mother never,
While she daily met Him there.
And her constant love and patience
Were like coals upon my head,
Together with the imprints
Of her elbows on my bed.
Mother-love and God-love
Are a combination rare,
And ones that canít be beaten
When sealed in earnest prayer.
And so at last the fight was won,
And I to Christ was led,
And Motherís prayers were answered
By her elbows on my bed.
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