Saints are rarely saints, if you know what I mean.
They're human, with desires, hungers, sins.
Perhaps you thought sin stops where grace begins,
Arrested in such souls as faith redeems.
Then think again. Though angels might be seen
Resting on the wind with rainbowed wings,
In blissful choirs as the sunlight sings,
Can one, ought one be of all sins clean?
Knowing Christ Himself was human, and
'Mid flesh and sin lived out His few short years,
Still human as He suffered and cried out,
Demands that we obey the same command
And follow Him through suffering and tears,
Yet struggling in the heart with faith and doubt.