She tells me she is poor
No one gives to her
She sings on the street
And I tell her,
You give more than you can—
Every day you give a widow’s mite
Would someone give something back?
Why am I so afraid to give to someone who begs?
To support a busker, what a dredge
Her songs are no good, but she likes her small pleasure
Her pleasures come and go
They’re free and gone forever
Why should I pay for hers? I have to live
They are fools
She does what she wants
I have to work
Let Jesus give to her!
I do not!
I don’t lend money or give free of charge
Whoever wants my help shall be charged!
I am not untrue
I do my work and so should you
Why are you afraid to give to a beggar?
A beggar does not pretend
Why wouldn’t a rich man give a widow’s mite?
To someone who cares to sing?
About good things
Why would you begrudge two miserly dollars?
For a performance made on the street
What do you know about charity?
You wretched man of deceit
You don’t do as Jesus says
You like your small pleasures
You just can’t let go of two miserly dollars
One day you’ll do it
I bet you will
It will be for a bet on the races
I know it will
Busker and beggar,
You are human beings I don’t know
I don’t have to let go
Why are you afraid to give?
In the cold, through the wind, and under grey clouds,
I waited for her
To give more than I would, with the feet and hands of Jesus I should, not knowing what may come
When I go back, she’s gone.