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.