Classic Poem

DURABLE RICHES

The meanest creature of His care
Finds some soft nest to greet it made,
The hunted beast has yet its lair; —
He had not where to lay His head.

And scarce a little child that dies
But has its treasured things to share;
Its little store of legacies
Love hoards thenceforth with sacred care.

He left no treasure to divide;
E'en the poor garments which He wore
Were shared by strangers ere He died,
For their own worth, and nothing more.

Yet when the first disciples trod
Vineyards and fields of other men,
Pilgrims beside the Son of God,
Had royal grants enriched them then?

Or when, on His ascension day,
They stood once more on Olivet,
And town and village 'neath them lay,
Gems in their vines and olives set, —

Nor vines or olives, house or lands,
They owned those hills or valleys o'er,
Yet, when Christ lifted up His hands
And bless'd them, were those Christians poor?

If of that world which is His own,
Where every knee to Him shall bow,
Some special acres each had won,
Had they been richer then, or now?