At Khalighat, in the temple of the house for the dying
When the night has slept through its darkening.
And the tired watchman's watch wane.
At that ungodly hour she again kneels in pain.
Hands clasped in prayer into the folds of her face,
To her God she so loved, and yet doubted His grace.
Bent over in humility the "Saint of the Gutters",
With an army of Charity's very own sisters,
Seek the unwanteds, unloved, uncared for
Societies scum and the poorest of the poor.
The crippled, the blind, the homeless, the beggars
Humanities garbage- the hungry, the naked, the lepers.
Like the Howrah stretching across the banks
To calm the Hooghly's rough and tidal dance.
Unnamed women in blue bordering on the white,
Everyday stretch out hands and hearts in afight
Against the cold and wrongs to the world's dross.
Inspired and led by the simple poverty of the cross.
She sees Jesus in a pile of rags on the streets
Hugging the maggot eaten flesh she cleans and feeds,
Striving to ease the pain, the hunger, the loneliness,
And sharing the joy of loving to God's own nameless.
His thin long bony hands stretch out and cries "Ma" to her,
As at last he finds peace in the wrinkled hands of his Mother.
Volunteer with the Missionaries of Charity in Calcutta-
Topic(s) of this poem: jesus
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.