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.