The Widow’s Mites by Irwin H. Evans

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Nov 23, 1916

The Widow’s Mites

By Irwin H. Evans

IRWIN H. EVANS

The Jewish feast was on. The gorgeous day Was all resplendent East could ask. The sky As sea was blue. Nor cloud nor mist as veil Did hang to hide the golden sun. The spring With all its charms of green and life had come. Perfumes from blooming nature filled the air. The young skipped here and there in play, or slept Beneath the mother’s patient, watchful eye. The mated birds, their young ones hatched, now trilled Melodious songs from field and shrub and tree.

Jerusalem was filled with pilgrims from Afar and near. The feast of Passover Had come, and God it seemed had made a day In Palestine full like the one that once Had been in ancient Goshen, when the king And his armed men drove Israel forth, their God To worship in an unseen, distant land. The oldest priest had never seen such throngs. The records searched, and none had been. The cause? — The far-famed Teacher. He, the Seer, the throngs Would meet and hear and judge. If Christ, the crowds Would know; impostor, they would hiss and cry, “Away with him!” but all would see and hear. The temple early filled; for word had spread, “The Teacher! he will come this day; he slept At Bethany.”

The Master as his wont Had spent much time in prayer. The need he felt Was great; his strength too weak. The morrow stern Would tax his wisdom; so he tarried long In supplication: took but slight repast; His food, his Father’s will; his strength, the help The Holy Spirit gives to contrite souls.

The last star’s glimmering light paled into gray As Jesus waked his sleeping friends to toil; And as the morning sun shot gleams of gold Past peaks of hills, and kissed the thronged streets, The Saviour,—Christ, the Son of God, man’s Friend,— With solemn mien, followed by twelve, his choice Of all who called him Christ, the Father’s Son, Entered the Valley gate, and took the road, With motley throng, that to the temple led. Too hurried were the weary feet to pause And ask, “Is he the One?” All bent to reach The temple court the first. Often the beasts Did crowd him for the path, and man and child Jostled and pressed, in careless mood, the world’s Redeemer; nor would they so much as speak, As now, so then, the worshiper possessed One strong desire,—to get the choicest place; Nor heed did pay to others’ need, as if His God were blind to acts of men. So rushed They on, the Master in their midst.

Now fell A woman aged, and worn with journey long, Struck by a donkey’s load, and none would lift Her up, nor stay to know her hurt—the court, The temple court, their goal. The Master pressed The throng apart, and stooped to lift again To feet the one borne down. His touch was life. Restored was she, and grateful too; but she Had come afar to worship God, and haste Must make to find a place. Now, healed, she could Not wait to journey with her Lord. None knew His touch had healed her wound, save her from whom The virtue came. He felt the passing of the power Which gave the needed aid; virtue had gone From him. And none did heed. This people, hard, Had come to worship God. What cared they else? The temple reached, the Master slowly climbs Its polished marble steps. Less hurried now The throngs of men, though courts below are pressed For room. Swift in the temple comes a hush As the far-famed and Holy One takes seat. The money changers grip their coin and cease Their cry; the hucksters soon are dumb, and look Askance. The priests slink back, abashed, and hide. Awhile, it seemed He would be left alone. He sits enwrapped in deep though silent thought. The morrow—death! O life! O sin! The grave!— Nor seen, nor feared. Deep grief is in his face, Such grief as only God, not man, can know. So pity is awakened in hearts that see. Some pause To see if he is dead, but none dare speak. O people! here is God, the Christ, crushed down Beneath man’s guilt and sin; and agony Is in his heart. Will none give words to cheer?

The twelve are there, but stand apart; they dread To look into his eyes, foreboding death. But John, the well-beloved, is near; he can Not be content far from his blessed Lord. The ardent Peter by yon pillar stands; Close by is James; and Judas stands beside The treasury box. Oft has he thought, “How much They give!” and longed to fill his hungry purse. Not his the chance; an impious hoarding host Of priests guard well the till, while Judas dreams, “A bargain could be made for gold; the priests Will buy the Lord.” But why such thoughts? He turns To learn if Christ has seen his guilt. But no— The Master looks not up, and Judas leaves His place, and stands beyond the treasury box.

A noise is heard, a rush, a jam, the blare Of trumpets loud. The priests appear. The cry, “Behold, Prince Abram comes! Royal his gift!” Re-echoes through the halls and corridors. “Behold, Prince Abram comes! Royal his gift! Make way! Make way!” cry priest and Pharisee. “Prince Abram comes! And royally he gives!” Aside are pushed the young, the old, the poor, That he who comes to give may honor have And hearty cheer. It matters not whose heart May ache, whose body’s crushed, if only room Is made for sons of Mammon, great in wealth. This prince is rich, far spread his fame. In Ethiop’ His mines are worked by slaves. His argosies Sail forth to ports afar; his gains beyond Compute, and more,—beyond the law of love. Hard grind his slaves at many tasks. To him The poor in vain for mercy cry; his heart No mercy knows, no thought of pity feels. More gains his only end,—and more—and more. Down yonder street he comes. Before, the band Proceeds, to sound his name; behind, silk clad, His servants, decked like Solomon’s. Beneath A canopy of silks and golden lace, He rides upon a chair of gold. Each pound Of gold has cost the life of man. But now He comes to make amends. A “royal gift” He brings to priest and temple grand. The priest Will offering make to mend his soul. The gold He gives will pardon buy. The groans and tears And prayers from slaves are naught. Are men not made To die?

Four slaves bear him aloft. And now They climb the marble steps, and reach the floor Where stands the vault for gold and gifts. Vast wealth Its maw had held, but empty now, and e’er Shall be; like death, which ne’er can say, Enough. Before him then is laid, for feet so soft, A rug from Persia’s loom. No priest e’er saw Such sheen and glow from toil and sweat of man. A score of lives were weaved in that one rug. Each step is on a human heart. A life Was snuffed for every yard. And yet, ’twas made For dainty feet like his. And after him The rug is rolled; for only his must tread On human woe. Then come four men, and strong, From Africa’s darkened land. Nor skins were more Like blackest night than hearts and minds. These now Are in Jehovah’s temple grand, with backs All scarred with lash and stroke; their features stern With hate and sin.

The priests are there,—the chief Priest Annas, too, the high, and Caiaphas,—all Are there to welcome Abram’s gift of gold. The trumpeters blow long and loud; the throngs Press close, for every eye would see the bag Of gold Prince Abram gives. Intensity Pulls hard; the four black men lift high the gift, The prince with sword cuts cord that binds, then falls The glittering gold. When all is done, the high Priest Annas lifts his hands, “Jehovah great, Thee bless in basket and in store; increase Thy gold, and flocks, and herds; add to thy lands; Prolong thy life; destroy thy foes; and spread Thy fame afar. Amen.” As came the prince, So he departs, amid th’ admiring crowd. From Rome, another Mammon prince came next. In gifts and outward show he dimmed the prince From Egypt’s port, and won applause of all.

In meditation deep the Master sat, And gave no sign that all was known to him. But Judas noted all—O wealth he could Not touch! His heart held thoughts he dared not speak aloud. But other friends of Jesus neither saw The show, nor cared. Their hearts and thoughts to him Were true.

The throngs are busied now with things Within, without. The Master turns to one Who now is struggling up those polished stairs, So old and weak and worn, she scarce can lift Herself from step to step. With staff in hand, She leans upon the balustrade, and pants For breath; she shakes her hoary, wrinkled head, And speaks: “No more this giddy height for me: Too weak I am—too old. Alas! no more These eyes, so dim, shall see God’s holy house. I’m done. Lord, help me on this once, just once. To enter this thy holy place again. Permit my eyes to see thy holy priests; Though here I vow to touch not e’en what they Do wear, lest I defile thy priests, and make Unclean. Lord, I would enter thine abode. Then let thy servant die. Amen.” So on She climbs, her feeble limbs can scarce convey Her form within; but as she slowly gains New strength, she spends it all to reach the place Her heart desires. It is the Treasury! Why comes she here? To beg? In poverty She’s clad. No sign of wealth she shows; her dress So thin and worn one fears another week It can but drop and leave her shriveled form To wind and storm. No priest is there. The blare Of trumpet sounds, no call to see. Alone She stands beside the very spot where sons Of Mammon stood. With effort sore she draws A napkin, safely tied, from pocket deep, And takes two mites,—so long she’d saved,—and then, Lest man should see, awaits her chance, and slips The two into the very place where gold And precious stones so lately clinked and rolled. With heart of prayer, she cries, “Lord, Lord, it’s all. I have no more. I give my sinful heart To thee. O, grant thy servant may within Thy holy hill some day abide.” She then Withdraws amid the throng, and seeks her home.

The Master knew her heart, and stirred by what Had been, and was, he spoke: “Of all these gifts, This widow’s mites are most. She gave her all, Her need, her bread. Her house has neither food Nor fire. My Father cares not for the sum, But for the heart which gives. To him the love Behind the gift is most. I say this poor And lonely heart gave all; and were it less A thousandfold, if that could be, than what It is, yet still no pompous gift of gold From hearts of pride can equal hers. In heaven All gifts are measured by the love within The heart. A drop of water given to one Who is of mine shall ne’er forgotten be, When given in my name. I must be first, And love is what I want. Tell all, in days To come, the Master craves the heart, and then He has the rest; for love transmutes the gift, And, be it less or more, ’tis all I ask.”