My Mother’s Bible

And I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them (Revelation 14:13).

I can still see my mother reading to my brother and I at very young ages the Twenty-third Psalm. I can visualize it as if it were happening right now. The hymn My Mother’s Bible means so much to me. While written in 1893, the hymn could have easily been written about my mother. She taught us from God’s holy word. I have strayed many times but things she taught us brings me back. Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it (Prov 22:6).

My mother is in Heaven now but I have her last Bible. I use it as my Bible. It is a King James Version. It was good enough for her; I see no need for me to change now. My mother has past but she lives on in my memory and her works are following her. One day, not that long now, we’ll be reunited.

My mother lives on in Heaven yet even more so and better, God’s word lives on and will always. Man, no matter how vile can erase it or stamp it out. Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words shall not pass away (Matt 24:35).

Milan Williams wrote the lyrics will Charles D. Tillman wrote the tune for My Mother’s Bible. The copyright is still assigned to Mr. Tilman.


There’s a dear and precious Book,
Though it’s worn and faded now,
Which recalls those happy days of long ago,
When I stood at mother’s knee,
With her hand upon my brow,
And I heard her voice in gentle tones and low.

Chorus: Blessed Book, precious Book,
On thy dear old tear stained leaves I love to look;
Thou art sweeter day by day, as I walk the narrow way
That leads at last to that bright home above.

As she read the stories o’er
Of those mighty men of old,
Of Joseph and of Daniel and their trials,
Of little David bold,
Who became a king at last,
Of Satan and his many wicked wiles.

Then she read of Jesus’ love,
As He blessed the children dear,
How He suffered, bled and died upon the tree;
Of His heavy load of care,
Then she dried my flowing tears
With her kisses as she said it was for me.

Well, those days are past and gone,
But their memory lingers still
And the dear old Book each day has been my guide;
And I seek to do His will,
As my mother taught me then,
And ever in my heart His Words abide

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