God said, “Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth.”
You said, “I’m on it. To how many kids should I give birth?”
The first wife of Feodor Vassilyev had sixty-nine,
But if you have less, that too is quite fine.
With six kids now and one on the way,
I daresay you’ve got reason to celebrate today.
These children, God’s first and always, we also claim;
They call you mother – adding honor to your name.
Out of motives so pure, only a mother could know,
You teach them and serve them, helping love grow.
Your love, their love, God’s love enduring;
A place in the eternities you’re surely securing.
As you watch them grow, they see you act,
Cooking, cleaning, washing; more as a matter of fact.
They see everything you do, and all that you are,
They watch – for to them you are a shining star.
And not just to the kids, but also to me.
How much more perfect could you possibly be?
My best friend, my blushing bride,
My eternal companion, divinity at my side.
I love all about you. There’s nothing I’d change,
From inside to outside; I’ll take the whole range.
I love your tender touch and melodic voice,
I love your music – how in song you rejoice.
I love how you find new talents each year.
I love how your nose gets cold from sudden fear.
Your smile, your laugh (even the guffaws and snort),
Anything less and you’d sell yourself short.
You mean so much more than I could ever say,
With a million repetitions of “Happy Mother’s Day.”
No matter what I say, no matter what I do,
I can never hope to repay the gift of you.