Pieta

Pieta

Hold me, mother,
make a cradle of your arms.

Limp with exhaustion
my heart turned cold,
let me rest there,
your arms about me warmly,
your heart against my cheek.

Hold me, mother.
make a cradle of your arms.

Soiled and stained
all trusting gone,
let me rest there,
your arms about me warmly,
your tears to wash me.

Hold me, mother,
make a cradle of your arms.

Sick and discouraged
all hope crushed and death calling,
let me rest there,
your arms about me warmly,
your soft words to caress me.

Hold me, mother,
make a cradle of your arms.

Hold me, mother,
and restore me.

Judith Morgan