The babe at first feeds upon the mother's bosom, but it is always on her heart.
The mother's heart is the child's schoolroom.
When God thought of mother, He must have laughed with satisfaction, and framed it quickly - so rich, so deep, so divine, so full of soul, power, and beauty, was the conception.
A mother has, perhaps, the hardest earthly lot; and yet no mother worthy of the name ever gave herself thoroughly for her child who did not feel that, after all, she reaped what she had sown.
What a mother sings to the cradle goes all the way down to the coffin.
A babe is a mother's anchor.
God pardons like a mother, who kisses the offense into everlasting forgiveness.
Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind." I found the following quote by Goethe that can serve as a commentary on these words. "We are shaped and fashioned by what we love." "The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.
That was a judicious mother who said, "I obey my children for the first year of their lives, but ever after I expect them to obey me.
There is no slave out of heaven like a loving woman; and of all loving women, there is no such slave as a mother.
If every child might live the life predestined in a mother's heart, all the way from the cradle to the coffin, he would walk upon a beam of light, and shine in glory.
A mother is as different from anything else that God ever thought of, as can possibly be. She is a distinct and individual creation.
A mother's prayers, silent and gentle, can never miss the road to the throne of all bounty.
It is a view of God that compensates every thing else, and enables the soul to rest in His bosom. How, when the child in the night screams with terror, hearing sounds that it knows not of, is that child comforted and put to rest? Is it by a philosophical explanation that the sounds were made by the rats in the partition? Is it by imparting entomological knowledge? No; it is by the mother taking the child in her lap, and singing sweetly to it, and rocking it. And the child thinks nothing of the explanation, but only of the mother.
Experience is the mother of custom.
We pray for those who have ceased to pray. We pray for those that need prayer more than ever, that have fewer and fewer seasons even of thought, that grow hard with years, that are less and less troubled by sin, and that are more and more irreverent of religion. We pray for the children of Christian parents who sometimes weep at the memory of father and mother, but who never have thought of God.
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