by Peter Notehelfer
Jan Richardson

Jan Richardson

The faces
of the saints
are rarely warm
staring back at us in glass
from the stained window
or the front page
bearing news
of the day 

cuts an edge
to the gentle eye
turns heart to compassion
points hand toward justice
and in the process
steps inward
of the pain

The feet
of the saints
are rarely shod
walking sacred labyrinths
in pilgrimage toward God
or on the roadside
blown apart
by bombs

No saint
sets out to be
a saint or chooses
martyrdom or earthly fame
Suffering sinners that is all
they are each one
born but to die
dying born


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