THE WIDOW'S MITE

She cast in all she had, the Master said.
The thronging crowds made way; then smiled in scorn.
Why should the Teacher praise a gift so small?
Perchance she heard his words, as through the press
She went her homeward way with gladsome step,
Her heart o'erflowing with a secret joy.
And we to-day must marvel as we read,
And, wondering, ask what urged that eager hand;
What revelation sped those hurrying feet,
Impelled the glad outpouring of her all?
Sure!y a vision of Love's affluence
Had dawned upon her seeking hungry soul,
"All that I have is thine,"—the words shone clear;
Take of the rich abundance full and free.
Seeing and tasting of these wells of Truth,
Small wonder that her spirit soared and sang.
Her cruse could never fail; her bread was sure!
Well might she draw from out infinitude,
Taking Love's gift to pass it on again
And yet again to feed the multitude!
Yea, thus, her heart afire with love and praise,
She hasted to the temple treasury
And gave her mite. She cast in all she had,
The Master said. Doubt you but that his soul
Rose in glad kinship with this child of God,
Saw of its travail, and was satisfied?