We walked not to be seen, but to see—
the wound, the want, the whispered need—
feet blistered by obedience,
hearts cracked to let the Kingdom bleed.
Faith is no thoughtless fire—it bends
through reason’s lens, but never breaks;
it kneels beside a leper’s bed
and prays through reason, shivers, shakes.
Service is liturgy in motion,
a sacrament beyond the walls—
where doctrine meets infection's breath
and mercy fills the clinic halls.
I have seen the calculus of grief
in charts, in child, in mother's eyes;
but what algorithm counts the cost
of one lost sheep the Shepherd buys?
The sterilized and sacred blur—
with latex hands, I touch the soul;
Christ in the patient, Christ in me,
one Body broken, made whole.
O Word made flesh in every tongue,
each culture kissed by grace unseen,
Your Gospel walks on dusty roads
with water, bread, and vaccine.
The cross is more than symbol here,
it splinters into daily bread—
where Christ is stitched through every wound
and resurrection lifts the dead.
So grant me not a brighter crown
than this: to serve where you have knelt,
to find You not in strength alone,
but where the world's deep hunger’s felt.
Let me be small, obscure, unknown—
a shadow in Your healing light,
content to be a whispered psalm
You sing into the coming night.
Competing Interests
None declared.