This is not about the Saint,
With the halo above his head,
Who sleeps on a cold, concrete bed.
This is not about the sinner,
With the blood of hatred on his mind,
And the sins which we can never find.
It is about the humble and lonely man,
Lost and stunned by what life has given him,
Shocked by what he has just received, an empty plate.
He has lost all his money, his family, and his home,
Taken away by life, he is lost and forced to roam.
He lives on dangerous streets for the rest of his life,
Facing the pain and the hunger in his belly,
Every night and every day,
But, what does he say?
“I hope and pray, that there will be a way,
A way out of all this misery and this pain,
To once again stand on my swollen feet again.”
His whole life and his whole person,
Has disappeared in a wisp of smoke,
He is lost, lonely, and broke.
This was not his choice or his decision,
To be locked in this sightless prison.
He is blind and does not exist to the world.
He is a blank and open book,
The one in the library no one took.
On a cold winter night,
When he was cold, shivering in the night,
And covered in painful, frost-bite,
The Gates of Eternity suddenly opened,
Taking him away from the cold frosty wind.
He lived on dangerous streets for his mortal life,
Facing the pain and the hunger in his belly,
Every night and every day,
But, what would he say?
“I hope and pray, that there will be way,
A way out of all this misery and this pain,
To make me whole and feel blessed again.”
As his body lay in the snow and the rain,
There were no flags and banners galore, no bugle calls,
No trumpets of glory or crying on the walls.
Here was a Saint who died in a ditch,
A man who loved, worked and hoped to be rich.
This brave man was so much more than a tramp,
He silently endured all the humiliation, misery, and pain,
After he lost everything and was cast out into the cold and rain.
He was a Saint without all the pomp and the glory,
The abandoned family man was a humbling human story.
This is not about the Saint,
With the halo above his head,
Who sleeps on a cold, concrete bed.
This is not about the sinner,
With the blood of hatred on his mind,
And the sins which we can never find.
This is a story about a blank and open book,
The one in the library no one took.
An Empty Page of Glory