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9

At My Mother's Grave.

I never see the burial place,
Where my dear mother lies;
But that I think I see her face,
Peak at me through the skies.
I stand around her sacred mound,
And think she knows I'm there;
I kneel upon the sacred ground
And lisp her evening prayer.
Her fav'rite hymn I then repeat,
With accents all her own;
We seem to meet at Jesus' feet,
And linger near His throne.
She sleeps within her narrow cot,
Safe “tucked in” from the night;
Resigned, I leave the solemn spot,
“God doeth all things right.”