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.