Prayer Time

And while she darns the children's socks,
She prays for the little stumbling feet;
Each folded pair within its box
Fits faith's bright sandals, sure and fleet.

While washing out, with mother pains,
Small, dusty suits, and frocks, and slips,
She prays that God may cleanse the stains
From little hands, and hearts, and lips.

And when she breaks the fragrant bread,
Or pours a portion in each cup,
For grace to keep their spirits fed
Her mother-heart is lifted up.

O busy ones, whose souls grow faint
Whose tasks seem longer than the day,
It doesn't take a cloistered saint
To find a little time to pray.