THE MASTER SITS BY THE TREASURY.
By Mrs. W. L. Miller
The Master “sits over against it,”
As he did in the temple of old,
When the rich in the vestibule tarried
To cast in their treasures and gold,
And the Pharisee poured in his off’ring,
To chink ’neath the sides of the chest,
And the widow stole up with her farthing,
And the publican smote on his breast. The Master still sits by the treasury,
As he did in the temple of old,
Though centuries many have glided
Since the Pharisee cast in his gold;
And He sees, though the name is discarded,
The sect in its vigor remains,
And the devotee eases his conscience
By giving of ill-gotten gains. And the widow still comes with her off’ring,
All fragrant with love and with prayer,
The Master accepts of the treasure—
The richest and sweetest that’s there—
And pours in the heart of the giver,
So much of his love and his grace,
She goes forth to new self-denial,
Repaid by a glance at his face. The Master still sits by the treasury,
And oft sees the rich, heavy fold
Of velvet and satin sweep near him,
And the glitter of jewels and gold,
As the maiden comes up to deposit,
From fingers all flashing with light,
A dime—or a penny—or farthing,
Unconscious, alas! of his sight. The Master “sits over against it;”
O brother, can you or can I
With confidence bring in our off’ring,
And cast it beneath his pure eye?
Shall he take up the gift, oh! how paltry;
And weigh it before us to-night,
Encumbered with every mixed motive,
Oh! what would it seem in his sight? The Master “sits over against it,”
A terrible thought, and yet true,
When his servants, his own ransomed children
Withhold from the treasury his due,
And each of his substance is spending
For what seemeth best in his sight,
Yet goes through the door of the temple
And casts to the Master—his mite.