The Widow's Mite
She lived on the outer fringes of the town,
Her gowns were all torn or worn down,
And she had a little hut,
Which couldn't be shut,
It had neither a window nor a door,
Poor soul she rested on the floor,
Her body was wracked with intense pain,
Which very nigh drove her insane,
Daily she passed the night in a fright,
Rats scurried, oblivious of her plight.
Early the next morn,
She ate a little corn,
And slowly trudged her way,
She had to make it that day,
He knew she was coming His Way,
Well her feet were not made of clay,
She had to give her tithe,
It did not make her writhe,
Without much ado,
She did what she had to do,
It made Him more than just glad,
That she had given all she had!
Some months later on a cold wintry night,
Her soul took flight,
The stars were hardly visible that night,
Was she seeing right,
For she beheld a wondrous sight,
He was robed in resplendent white.
' Welcome Home, my dearly beloved ',
He very sweetly said,
' Your mite was all that you could offer,
Just the right amount, it filled my coffer,
Now it's my turn to make you an offer,
I have prepared for you a mansion your world
could never offer!
