In Memory of Father Damien
More royal than the miniver of kings
The robe of tortured flesh that clothed his soul, —
The martyr, reaching out an eager hand
To clasp the cup of bitterness and dole.
And lo! we see through tears the signs divine
Of sainthood that the ancient tales repeat:
Stigmata were the loathsome ulcer-wounds
Disease had marked in holy hands and feet!
The robe of tortured flesh that clothed his soul, —
The martyr, reaching out an eager hand
To clasp the cup of bitterness and dole.
And lo! we see through tears the signs divine
Of sainthood that the ancient tales repeat:
Stigmata were the loathsome ulcer-wounds
Disease had marked in holy hands and feet!
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