THE WIDOW’ S MITE

The widow had but only one,

A puny and decrepid son;

But day and night,

Though fretful oft, and weak, and small,

A loving child, he was her all —

The widow’ s mite.

The widow’ s might — yes! so sustain’ d

She battled onward, nor complain’ d

Though friends were fewer:

And, cheerful at her daily care,

A little crutch upon the stair

Was music to her.

I saw her then, and now I see,

Though cheerful and resign’ d, still she

Has sorrow’ d much:

She has — HE gave it tenderly —

Much faith — and carefully laid by

A little crutch.