The Saint of the Gutters

Mother Teresa (1910-1997). A Saint.

A tiny woman, bowed, wrinkled
And worn with the years of life,
Pushed further to finish her tasks
Of godly works in rife.

Her body was weak and frail,
But her heart was brave and stout.
With years spent for the good of man,
Her services were devout.

Mother Teresa's footprints—
Etched in the sand of time—
Proclaim her saintly deeds
With a melodious chime.

She dutifully roamed,
Devoid of all pride—
And chose humble dwellings
With God as her guide.

Rejecting all prospects,
She could never ignore
Her Calcutta calling
For her darling, the POOR.

No fashion, fad, nor glaring lights,
But a simple lifestyle.
No beauty, fame, nor riches,
But in the beholder’s eye.

No shiny tiara nor royalty,
But souls ever so dear.
Only the “scum of the slums”
Was her portion here.

Her hands, worn and wrinkled,
Cared for the tiniest child.
To soothe the sick and dying,
Her efforts were worthwhile.

'Twas beauty in each wrinkle
That graced her aged stride
As she met the needs of others—
Putting her own aside.

In honor of those served,
She accepted the “Nobel Peace Prize”—
A distinction well deserved;
She was humble, yet wise.
She was humble, yet wise.

A possessor of very little,
This woman gave so much.
In her services rendered,
Countless hearts she touched.

She built hospice homes,
Where the morbid could lie
And spend their final days
As each prepared to die.

The leper, homeless, diseased,
Crippled, hungry, poor,
Sick, blind and naked—
All laid at Mother's door.

She often deceived death—
That grim, mysterious foe—
Ever poised to whisk her away
As she refused to go.

Instead, she weathered life—
Serving the poorest of poor.
Now bidding a final goodbye,
Alas, she toils no more.

‘Twas on a Friday,
September 5, 1997
That this faithful little gem
Transcended earth to heaven.

The world misses Teresa—
Especially the poor.
The rich and the powerful
Will hear her voice no more.

The precious “Saint of the Gutters,”
India's purest gold,
Relinquished her earthly life
At eighty-seven years old.

Nations mourned her passing
And millions loved her so,
For she is irreplaceable
Who was a joy to know.

1997

Walterrean Salley