Classic Poem

Overbeck, the Forest Preacher,
Bent his silvered head:
" Harvest yields for every creature
Food in store, " he said.

" Ye that know your Lord is living,
Witnessing His grace,
Heap your tithes of all His giving
Round His altar-place. "

Ere November breezes blowing
Bared the silver birch,
Harvest-plenty overflowing
Filled the little church.

Farmer-folk in pleasant parley
Praised the crops they'd reared —
Dirck Van Brunt his sheaves of barley
Yellow as his beard,

Peter Smit his orchard's bounty;
Boastful Gert Von Horn
Swore no croft in all the county
Equaled his for corn.

Housewives showed in oaken caskets
Butter firm and good.
Children brought in birchen baskets
Nuts of copse and wood.

All was set before the altar,
When across the moor
Crept the widow, Gretel Balter,
Wrinkled, bent, and poor.

" She! that earns with all her labors
Scant enough to live,
Helped and clothed by kindly neighbors —
What hath she to give? "

" Come, behold the widow's treasure! "
All the world drew near.
Just a little earthen measure
Filled with water clear.

Just an earthen cruse, upon it
Writ in letters plain —
Yea, and all her world might con it —
" God be thanked for rain. "

Overbeck, the Forest Preacher,
Raised his noble head:
" She, not I, shall be your teacher,
Oh, my friends, " he said.

" What are treasures proudly tendered?
Dross before His throne!
Humble offerings, humbly rendered,
Loveth God, alone. "