The prophets sons, in time of old,
          Though to appearance poor;
Were rich without possessing gold,
          And honored, though obscure.
 

In peace their daily bread they eat,
          By honest labor earned;
While daily at Elisha’s feet,
          They grace and wisdom learned.
 

The prophet’s presence cheered their toil,
          They watched the words he spoke;
Whether they turned the furrowed soil,
          Or felled the spreading oak.
 

Once as they listened to his theme,
          Their conference was stopped;
For one beneath the yielding stream,
          A borrowed axe had dropped.
 

“Alas! it was not mine, he said,
          How shall I make it good?”
Elisha heard, and when he prayed,
          The iron swam like wood.
 

If God, in such a small affair,
          A miracle performs;
It shows his condescending care
          Of poor unworthy worms.
 

Though kings and nations in his view
          Are but as motes and dust;
His eye and ear are fixed on you,
          Who in his mercy trust.
 

Not one concern of ours is small,
          If we belong to him;
To teach us this, the Lord of all,
          Once made the iron swim.