THE WIDOW WITH THE TWO MITES.

Here much and little change their name

With changing need and time;

But more and less new judgments claim,

Where all things are sublime.

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;

For 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;

But here is one who brings two mites,

“And yet gives more than all.”

She heard not, she, the mighty praise;

Went home to care and need:

Perchance the knowledge still delays,

And yet she has the meed.