Of childhood, fair childhood, the
years are long fled:
Youth's candles are quenched, and
my mother is dead.
And yet ev'ry Friday, when twilight
arrives,
The face of my mother within me
revives:
A prayer on her lips, "O Almighty
be blessed.
For sending us Sabbath, the angel of
rest".
And some hidden feeling I cannot
control
A Sabbath light kindles, deep, deep
in my soul.
This poem was written by Jewish poet,
Phillip M. Raskin, about his childhood with this touching
memory of his mother lighting the Shabbat candles.
I like to thank Rabbi Mike Short for sending this poem
to me, I just love it...
