Precious roses placed in her care,
Each one is different, each with gifts so rare.
She tenderly nurtures them in this garden of life,
As she prepares them for spring and the seasons of strife.

They are warmed by the sunshine of her love
And challenged by the fertilizer of her demands,
They are watered with the tears of her concern
And pruned under the discipline of her hands.

She lives humbled and honored and trembles each day,
That as placed in her hand by the Heavenly Father,
These precious roses make a beautiful bouquet
By which the Lord up above has honored her as “mother.”

©2013 Michael S Davis