The Poor
The poor I saw at the cloister gate
Mutely beg with their patient eyes
An alms, for the love of Him who sate
And supped with the poor in human guise.
And there were monks saw the nails’ deep scars
In the shrunken hands that reached for bread,
Who heard a Voice from beyond the stars
In the broken thanks of them they fed.
I, too, at the gates of God each day
Seek for an alms of strength and grace,
Beggar am I that wait and pray
To feast my soul on His beauteous Face.