A widow bent, with trembling hands, drew near,
Two mites, her all, within the treasury fall,
No gold to boast, no wealth to domineer,
Yet Heaven’s gaze beheld her humble call.
The rich cast in their heaps with hollow pride,
Their clinking coins a fleeting, brassy din,
But hers, a whisper, pierced the clamor wide,
A silent hymn of trust from deep within.
Each copper gleamed with faith’s unyielding fire,
Her widow’s heart poured out in love’s own choir,
Outshining pomp with love’s small, pure desire,
A gift to God, though she stood all alone.
The Lord uplifts her slight and humble store,
Her mites outshine their pride forevermore.