Poem June 1, 1935 Issue

The Widow's Mites

FRANK BALLS OUSELEY

They cast in much, but not so much
As she who cast in less than they.
The Master's verdict, it was such:
All that she had, they heard him say.

Was Jesus pleased to see her give
The remnants of her scanty hoard,
Perhaps a beggar's life to live,
Without the means for bed or board?

Ah, he to whom their thoughts were known,
Saw with those mites a something more—
The sense of limit gone, outgrown,
The widow pass, no longer poor.

Are you tight held in matter's grip?
Do you with anxious thought take care?
Cast out false view of ownership,
All that God has is yours—to share.

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