I. Strophe

“Whoever does this for the least of these

does it for me,” says Jesus Christ my King

to Whom I offer thanks on bended knees.

Now to my brother drunkards I must bring

shelter and provender, a chance to seize

pants by their belts, whatever ill they’ve done,

and lift their bloodshot eyeballs to the sun.

II. Antistrophe

For decades I gave nothing to the poor,

nothing to those less fortunate than I,

oblivious to their needs, but by and by

in dread of Peter waiting at his door,

in dread of Judgment at the Last Assize

when we are sorted for our works and faith

and every one of us, a frightened wraith,

averts his gaze from our Redeemer’s eyes,

penitent prayer when I lay down to rest

softened the stone I carried in my breast.

III. Epode

Behold the birds, the lilies of the field

            which neither spin nor sow.

St. Michael wards our planet with his shield,

            and its refulgent glow

illumines dusty footpaths to the grave

where mercy wields its mighty power to save.

Sola fide?  Judge also by my works.

            the lyrics that I write,

the callings which this servant seldom shirks

            however recondite,

my nameless gifts of kindness to the poor

make my salvation seem less insecure.