Motherhood is the first religion,
where every child learns the language of love
before they master the alphabet of life.
O Mother, cathedral of resilience.
Her back is an altar, bent in sacrifice,
her hands—twin scriptures of mercy,
her voice—a psalm that tames our storms.
O Mother, cathedral of resilience.
She is the sun clothed in flesh,
burning herself so others might grow.
Her prayers rise like incense from cracked lips.
O Mother, cathedral of resilience.
Mother, the first prophet of hope,
baptizing us daily in rivers of sweat,
her laughter—thunder turned soft,
her tears—a rain that waters becoming.
O Mother, cathedral of resilience.
And even when time folds her body like paper,
she remains a hymn carved into bone,
a living scripture written by God Himself.
O Mother, cathedral of resilience.
