A Poem on St. Francis for His Feast Day
The following poem was emailed to me on Sunday by a reader of this blog:
King Francis stood his ground at length,
With shield and sword and steadfast will,
While Satan’s legions, world and flesh
Cascading came in vain to kill.
Amidst the clash of arms and shout
The foe at last did crumble,
For all of evil’s menacing power
Is naught before the humble.
A costly sight did cloud his mind,
The pomp, the glimmer, the airy show,
But poverty’s glory shone the brighter
A woolen cross for God to sew.
From within a voice was heard
That sought to have its way,
But a call from higher realms
Crowned him as in death he lay.