 | [The two mites, in] The sacred annual ; a gift for all seasons |  |
117
THE TWO MITES.
“Verily, I say unto you, That this poor widow hath cast more in, than all they which have cast into the treasury.”—Jesus, to his disciples.—
St. Mark, xii. 43.”
Why ever to a shining mark
Should human hope be reaching?
The heavens may fail to tell the tale
That fading flowers are teaching:
A little lamp outshines a star,
Because the lamp is nearer—
And Love divine may brighter shine,
And come to conscience clearer,
Reflected from this humble heroine's story,
Than Solomon's could give, in all his glory.
Should human hope be reaching?
The heavens may fail to tell the tale
That fading flowers are teaching:
A little lamp outshines a star,
Because the lamp is nearer—
And Love divine may brighter shine,
And come to conscience clearer,
Reflected from this humble heroine's story,
Than Solomon's could give, in all his glory.
Poor Widow! wasted, wan, and weak,
I see thy footsteps falter,
As through the throng, that flaunt along
To gain God's awful altar,
Thou, in thy worn and week-day garb,
From silken robes art shrinking—
And, one by one, the proud pass on
Before thee—never thinking
Their golden gifts, bestowed in ostentation,
Will be as dross, weighed with thy pure oblation!
I see thy footsteps falter,
As through the throng, that flaunt along
To gain God's awful altar,
Thou, in thy worn and week-day garb,
From silken robes art shrinking—
And, one by one, the proud pass on
Before thee—never thinking
Their golden gifts, bestowed in ostentation,
Will be as dross, weighed with thy pure oblation!
118
O, sad and stricken poverty!
A scanty pittance earning,
How like the dream of cooling stream
To lips with fever burning,
The Saviour's sweet and soothing words—
As though the poor addressing—
Come in the hour of sorrow's power—
“The widow wins the blessing!”
O woman! in the depths of want and sadness,
Heaven holds for thee a fount of hope and gladness!
A scanty pittance earning,
How like the dream of cooling stream
To lips with fever burning,
The Saviour's sweet and soothing words—
As though the poor addressing—
Come in the hour of sorrow's power—
“The widow wins the blessing!”
O woman! in the depths of want and sadness,
Heaven holds for thee a fount of hope and gladness!
The cedar's shade, like cloud, may lie
Athwart the lily's brightness—
Yet why complain? it leaves no stain
To mar the blossom's whiteness;
And darkly thus may pride and power
Appear to press the lowly—
Yet never may the shadow stay
Where faith, like blossom holy,
Keeps white the heart—to such there will be given
A blest assurance of the love of Heaven!
Athwart the lily's brightness—
Yet why complain? it leaves no stain
To mar the blossom's whiteness;
And darkly thus may pride and power
Appear to press the lowly—
Yet never may the shadow stay
Where faith, like blossom holy,
Keeps white the heart—to such there will be given
A blest assurance of the love of Heaven!
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