Mary cradled the King of Glory. And I, too, have held a piece of that glory under my heart.
Little feet, untouched by the dust of earth,
Have only ever danced upon the streets of gold.
Little hands, so soft and pure, Have never grasped this world but have gripped my heart.
Little voices, unmarked by sorrow, Have known no sound but the melody of praise to the King of kings.
What a sacred honor, to mother the One who reigns.
And what a tender privilege, to nurture a soul destined for heaven’s light.
I was their first home, their first love, their first touch of earth, Before they slipped silently into a country of endless joy, Where night never falls, pain never lingers, and tears are forever dried.
To mother a piece of heaven—
It is the most bittersweet gift my heart has ever known.
I am their only earthly memory,
The one who held them before the arms of the King welcomed them home.
Yes, I am a mother.
A mother to a part of heaven’s splendor,
To a part of glory that now worships in ways no angel ever could.
Mary mothered the King.
And I, I have mothered souls who behold Him face to face.
What a privilege. What an honor.
To mother a piece of heaven.
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