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.

Not hedged about by sacerdotal 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 others' grief,
And in his eyes is love of brother-man.

No medieval 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.