Mortal Holiness Poem by Daniel Brick

The Saint of Ephesus died,
gray-haired, wrinkled and bent,
when he was sixty-three years old.
His village mourned for a week,
and news of his death reached
the capital the following month.
The ruler declared a day of mourning
for his court, and the priests
made plans for a memorial statue...
The morning of his last day
he rose before dawn, and was deep
in prayer as dawn-light washed over
the hills and valleys of his rugged
village. In due time he rose from prayer
as he rose from sleep, gaunt and restless,
uncertain of himself, lost in worry
over his soul's health and God's favor.
His youngest sister ministered to his
worldly needs. She placed before him
a plate of simplest greens and bread.
He blessed the food, and thanked her
with his eyes. He out his hand
on her bowed head and blessed her,
but no smile creased the sternness
of his face. He ate in silence,
as the household stirred around him.
In the afternoon he listened patiently
as a troop of petitioneers informed him
of their woes. His face softened in sympathy,
sometimes tears filled his eyes. He refused
all gifts and money. Each person received
his blessing and promise to pray for them.
All left his presence strangely moved,
consoled, many smiling for no apparent reason.
In the evening he led the village in prayer.
He was exhausted, as the sun disappeared
below the hills and spread a carpet
of shimmering red across the dry landscape.
He was already sleeping, when his sister
and sister-in-law guided him to bed.
In the morning, the two women were
the first to find him deceased,
lying on his back, his hands folded
over his chest as if in prayer,
and a gentle smile creasing his face.