Poem by Elizabeth F. Guptill - His Offering

‘Twas a common congregation.

            Not many rich or poor,

And they settled back in the places

            When the sermon at length was o’er

‘Twas a missionary sermon,

            And the Pastor tried, indeed,

To touch the hearts of his people

            For India’s great need.

He asked for a large collection

            To send the precious Word,

And He raised the mute petition,’

            “Touch their pocketbook, O Lord”

But “T’was only a begging sermon

            One hears so many no!”

And a lack of saddened patience

            Stole o’er the preacher’s brow.

As they gave their dimes and nickels

            With a have-to-do-it air,

Instead of the look of helpful joy,

            God’s people out to wear.

‘Way down in front, on the free seat,

            Sat a shabby little boy,

No mother’s pet or plaything,

            No father’s pride and joy.

Poor child! He had no mother,

            And he was a drunkard’s son,

Known to the congregation

            As “Drunken Lady’s John.”

Of course, he had no offering,

            So the deacon passed him by,

“Let us ask a blessing on it,”

            Said the pastor with a sigh.

“Oh wait,” said the barefoot laddie,

            As he started to his feet,

“And ask one on my offering, too!

            The deacon passed my seat.”

So back went the good old deacon,

            And his face wore a friendly smile,

As he passed the box to the little lad,

            Who was standing all the while.

“I haven’t much to give,” he said,

            “But I’ll give Him all I can,

And I’ll go out to India

            And preach when I’m a man.

And from his ragged pocket

            He drew his treasured pence,

And carefully he counted them---

            Just twenty-seven cents!

“There, that is every bit I have!”

            Said the shabby little lad.

“But I know that God’ll bless it,

            ‘Cause I gave Him all I had!”

“Here, Deacon, pass that box again!”

            Called honest Farmer Dorr

“We haven’t done the best we could,

            We want to give some more!”

And so the contribution box

            Went round the church once more,

And dollars now went dropping in,

Where nickels dropped before.

Men all unused to giving,

            Gave now, and softly smiled,

For now they gave to Jesus,

            Led by a little child.

And the pastor asked a blessing

            On a sum that made him glad.

And because one little boy

            Gave Jesus all he had!

                        Elizabeth F. Guptill.