The widow had but only one,
A puny and decrepid son;
But 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 sustain’ d
She battled onward, nor complain’ d
Though 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 resign’ d, still she
Has sorrow’ d much:
She has — HE gave it tenderly —
Much faith — and carefully laid by
A little crutch.