THE WIDOW WITH THE TWO MITES.
Here much and little shift and change,
With scale of need and time;
There more and less have meanings strange,
Which the world cannot rime.
Sickness may be more hale than health,
And service kingdom high;
Yea, poverty be bounty's wealth,
To give like God thereby.
Bring forth your riches; let them go,
Nor mourn the lost control;
- if ye hoard them, surely so Their rust will reach your soul.
Cast in your coins, for God delights
When from wide hands they fall;
- here is one who brings two mites, And thus gives more than all.
I think she did not hear the praise--
Went home content with need;
Walked in her old poor generous ways,
Nor knew her heavenly meed.