The Widow With The Two Mites

Here much and little shift and change, With scale of need and time; There more and less have meanings strange, Which the world cannot rime. 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 thus gives more than all. I think she did not hear the praise- Went home content with need; Walked in her old poor generous ways, Nor knew her heavenly meed.