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.
IX.
THE WOMEN WHO MINISTERED UNTO HIM.
Enough he labours for his hire;
Yea, nought can pay his pain;
But powers that wear and waste and tire,
Need help to toil again.
They give him freely all they can,
They give him clothes and food;
In this rejoicing, that the man
Is not ashamed they should.
High love takes form in lowly thing;
He knows the offering such;
To them 'tis little that they bring,
To him 'tis very much.