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.