The Widow's Mite

The Widow had but only one,
A puny and decrepit son;
Yet, day and night,
Though fretful oft, and weak, and small,
A loving child, he was her all—
The Widow's Mite.

The Widow's might,—yes! so sustained,
She battled onward, nor complained
When friends were fewer:
And, cheerful at her daily care,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.

I saw her then,—and now I see,
Though cheerful and resigned, still she
Has sorrowed much:
She has—HE gave it tenderly—
Much faith—and, carefully laid by,
A little crutch.