Few men would banish God from the universe. Too many worlds are wheeling in their orbits, and their orbits cross and recross each other too often to be left without a guiding hand. Moreover, the one we inhabit is the home of the earthquake and the volcano; hurricanes and tornadoes are born and bred on every continent and island; plague and pestilence ride on every breeze; death and destruction waste at noonday. In the presence of such dangers it is a comfort to know “the Lord reigneth.” But, alas! how many would banish God from their hearts! The clouds are the commissary trains of the nations; who would have them without their driver? Men want God on the throne, but not in their hearts. They would have Him watch the worlds, the clouds, the seasons, but not their actions. As if God was not a discerner of the very thoughts and intents of the heart. And then this poor widow loved much. And in God’s sight no offering of love is too small. Love is sometimes a babbling brook, leaping, laughing, sparkling, splashing. It is beautiful then. It is sometimes a mighty river--deep, broad, swift and strong, shouldering the burdens of a continent and bearing them without a murmur. It is glorious then. But it is sometimes the boundless ocean--feeding all the brooks and rivers, bearing the commerce of the world, and yet never losing one note in its everlasting lullaby. It rolls against all its shore lines and moans, “If there were no bounds, I’d bring your ships to all your doors.” Love is sublime then. The widow’s love was like the ocean; it rolled against its farthest shore and longed to go farther. “She of her penury” had cast into the treasury all that she had, and therefore had given “more than all they,” for, not what is given, but what is left, marks the grade of self-denial. There may be trust for bread when the storehouse is full, but the faith that empties the storehouse and then trusts for bread, is a purer and diviner faith. This poor widow was a heroine of faith. This apparently trifling event in the life of our Lord is of inestimable importance. It shows, after He had ended His oppressive day’s labor in the Temple, how he would still pause, in retiring from it, to bless the loving act of a poor widow, rendered unto the Lord in faith, and to adorn even so lowly a head with the crown of honor. We need no other proof for the celestially pure temper in which He left the inner courts of the Temple after He had pronounced His great denunciations against the hypocritical professions of Scribes and Pharisees. It is as if He could not so part, as if at least His last word must be a word of blessing and of peace. This incident of the poor widow with the two mites is also a new proof of the power of little things, and of the gracious favor with which the Lord looks upon the least offering which only bears the stamp of love and faith. The last object on which our Lord’s eyes rested as He departed from the Temple was the widow’s two mites. CHAPTER X.