Saintliness Poem by Daniel Brick

What makes the saint
so different from you or me,
from all of us lumped together
into one huge disorderly family?
Is it the saint's dawn prayer
that fold upon fold of light descend
upon one and all, even the unworthiest
among us, that no evil disturb
the poise of faith within each heart?
And in what tarnished place
are my morning thoughts lodged
while his embrace the whole of hope?

Or is it his gesture of charity
at every moment, acts of virtue
so sudden, so spontaneous nothing
of them remains after their doing,
no sign that points back to him,
anonymous and fleeting, known only
to the witnessing angels? Meanwhile
I amass good deeds like wealth,
swelling my account in heaven as a hedge
against judgment, so fearful am I
that mercy is too good to be true
for one has lived a narrow life.

Or is it his life in prayer, with one
prayer tumbling after another, tracing
a path that angels use to readjust their
place in the chaos of the world and restore
their view of heaven, making worldly things
dissolve in the celestial light, invisible
to all on earth but the saints, each with
his companion angel who interprets every thing
that happens as a sign of God's presence. The saint
responds to all this lavish natural wealth
in his nightly prayer, "Lord, give me nothing
more. Shower your grace on that solitary soul,
who wanders bereft of hope and faith. Lord, save him."