Are you a saint, my friend?
I hear you saying “No”
I too would say the same,
I am no saint, but wait,
Does perfection define a saint?
No, it is the love that’s borne within
That makes a saint
The ones whom we pass by
Sitting in the streets,
Begging,
Pleading to be loved,
Pleading for life,
They are the saints
For when we look into their eyes
We look into the eyes of Jesus
When feed them, feeding Him,
When love them, loving Him,
Saints are wounded, bearing battle scars,
Torn by life’s dark vagaries,
Crucified by those who judge,
Who bear hostility,
Crucified by cruel blows,
Yet still living on,
We cannot judge who is a saint,
But bear to each one love,
It is love that makes a saint