THE WIDOW'S MITE.

The Widow had but only one,

A puny and decrepit son;

Yet, 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 sustained,

She battled onward, nor complained

When 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 resigned, still she

Has sorrowed much:

She has--HE gave it tenderly--

Much faith--and, carefully laid by,

A little crutch.