(Just some good words from a brother named Burton in his book
Lyrics of Brotherhood)
No monkish garb he wears, no beads he tells,
Nor is immured in walls remote from strife.
But from his heart deep mercy ever wells;
He looks humanely forth on human life.
In place of missals or of altar dreams,
He cons the passioned book of deeds and days;
Striving to cast the comforting sweet beams
Of charity on dark and noisome ways.
Not hedged by sacer dotal rule,
He walks a fellow of the scarred and weak
Liberal and wise his gifts; he goes to school
To justice; and he turns the other cheek.
He looks not holy, simple is his belief;
His creed for mystic visions do not scan;
His face shows lines cut there by other's greif,
And in his eyes is love of brother-man.
Not self, nor self-salvation is his care;
He yearns to make the world a sunnier clime
To live in; and his mission everywhere
Is strangely like to Christ's in olden time.
No mediaeval mystery, no crowned,
Dim figure, halo -ringed, uncanny bright.
A modern saint; a man who treads earth's ground,
And ministers to men with all his might.
