A Poem for the Middle of the Day.

DORCAS

One day a woman, gently bowed,
As with his easy yoke,
Stood on the borders of the crowd
Listening as Jesus spoke.

She saw the garment knit throughout;
Forgot the words he spake;
Thought only "Happy hands that wrought
The honoured robe to make!"

Her eyes with longing tears grew dim:
She never can come nigh
To do one service poor for him
For whom she glad would die.

Across the crowd, borne on the breeze,
Comes - "Inasmuch as ye
Did it unto the least of these,
Ye did it unto me."

Home, home she went, and plied the loom,
And God's dear poor arrayed.
She died - they wept about the room,
And showed the coats she made.
                                    George MacDonald

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I like this poem for its economy of words and thoughtful story.