Don't need reason, don't need rhyme

Late I sat down last night,
by request a poem to compose.
Aught but a lamp for light
to spin a tale, and shun repose.

Long and hard was the fight
for words of wisdom- words to move
while away ticked the night,
and with each tick- a sharp reproof.

And with growing ire,
for all my efforts were in vain
I knelt down in prayer
To alleviate the strain.

Lord, said I in earnest-
bless thy servant with clarity
to write- which is dearest-
of precious sacred maternity.

Softly and tenderly,
that still small voice at last did speak.
Only look within, said he
and you will find what you seek.

I did as I was told
and plumbed the depths of memory
-and found worth more than gold
the toil of a mother's charity.

Patience to her ascribe,
fourth of the fruit of the spirit.
boundless her love is described-
love, I hardly merit

Love to purchase pardon
for my every indemnity-
and thus freely given,
her love derives it's sanctity.

Here is a hand, upon which
one might, without fear, surely rely.
A hand that stayed the switch,
-a father's waxing wrath defy.

As I sit here, lonely-
accompanied by solitude,
it occurs to me, how I'd
oft repaid love with ingratitude.

So I, with a full heart,
and mindful of our Lord's statutes,
remember with what art
He bid us act, as men of good repute.

And as in time to come,
When she grows old and her voice falters,
I'll repay her some,
of the love that on me she now showers.

Love will shoulder the debt,
I shall defy conformity.
Mine to give, hers to accept,
out of love, with cheerful gravity.

And even if I should fail,
fail,even at my filial duty,
She goes to one above,
who rewards her for all eternity.