Widow's Mite (1)


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?


Rich man:

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

Needy 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


Poor man:

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


Rich man:

Busker and beggar,

You are human beings I don’t know

I don’t have to let go


Poor man:

Why are you afraid to give?


Rich man:

In the cold, through the wind, and under grey clouds,

I waited for her

I waited…

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.


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