There's an old arm chair,
and it means the world to me,
for I used to sit there,
upon my mother's knee.
And she'd read to me the stories,
that children love to hear.
Now there's no one to sit in mother's chair.

I still recall the many times,
the words she'd say to me,
fight for all your dreams,
turn them to reality.
And as I sat by her in wonder,
her eyes held so much pride,
I knew against all others,
I had mother on my side.

Mother's chair is old and dusty,
and the colour's fading fast.
But to me it holds the memory,
of happy days long past.
Like the way she'd smile and hold my hand,
brush away my tears,
now there's no one to sit in mother's chair.

Now the old chair is still standing,
where she left it on that day,
when God came to visit,
and carried her away.
And every time I see it,
it looks so cold and bare,
now there's no one to sit in mother's chair.

Mother's chair is old and dusty,
and the colour's fading fast.
But to me it holds the memory,
of happy days long past.
Like the way she'd smile and hold my hand,
brush away my tears,
now there's no one to sit in mother's chair.

There's an old arm chair,
and it means the world to me,
for I used to sit there,
upon my mother's knee.
And she'd read to me the stories,
that children love to hear.
Now there's no one to sit in mother's chair.
No there's no one to sit in mother's chair.