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.