An Indian Doctor-Poet's Biographical Tribute Poem To Saint Mother Teresa - The Foundress Of The Missionaries Of Charity

Just see the work of human hand,
God-given one from a foreign land;
When she was eight, her father died;
Cute Agnes did in God abide.

To mom, she grew up to be nigh;
She saw the poor people near-by;
Her mother led the family then;
For poor, their home became haven.

The poor were invited for meals;
The home was filled by smiles and squeals;
To serve the poor, her heart now bowed;
The seed of charity got sowed.

A saint though born is always made;
God made a tree grow from a blade;
With just a pittance in her hand,
Like Fay, she waved a magic wand.

She brought the sick and nursed them free;
She trod the streets like a busy-bee;
She dressed the wounds of lepers all,
And raised the ones, who trip and fall.

Her love for God and Jesus grew;
She did the things we cannot do;
The Holy Spirit spoke in her;
The nun turned Kolkata's mother!

The frail figure brought to lips smiles,
And walked all life for miles and miles;
She prayed a lot within her heart,
And did all things by perfect art.

A girl became a nun so great
And trod the road to the Narrow Gate;
An Albanian Indian nun,
Dispelled the darkness like the sun.

She made sad faces to look bright;
She turned to be the city's light;
The ‘Saint of gutters' she was known;
She gathered widespread fame/renown.

Her heart was furnace of great love
That spewed divine like from above;
God gave her means to win more souls
And helped her take up newer roles;

The saint surprised the world at large;
No foes could level any charge;
Dignitaries took note of her;
The nun was now their fond ‘Mother'!

Her work unto the world had spread
And blessed by God was much favoured;
She won much laurels, accolades;
Her toil grew like the Everglades!

She was soon joined by other nuns;
Their rosaries were their weapons;
They spread the love of God around
And did work colossal sans sound.

One woman turned to be a force;
Donations flowed into her purse;
To dying, destitute and old,
She gave shelter, succor untold.

The baby girl of nineteen ten
Was now adored by men, women;
The elderly nun watched by all
Revealed to world, her clarion call.

The unknown nun soon rose to fame;
She won all trials and life's game;
She died years eighty seven old;
Her soul was more than nation's gold.

Good seed she sowed is now a tree
And bears good fruits with seeds afree;
White-saree bordered blue, they're clad
Expecting just the grace of God.

The money earned throughout her life,
Is used to help the poor in strife;
The Hand of God protects their home,
Wherein downtrodden are welcome.

God blessed her work of sweat and toil
That satan and his clan couldn't spoil;
Her work will continue to spread
And give dignity when one's dead.

Her nuns toil hard to spread the love
To all unwanted souls for now;
They're gold refined in God's furnace,
Who give to poor much happiness.

An Indian Doctor-poet's loving tribute to St. Mother Teresa MC
Copyright by Dr John Celes 2-09-2016

by Dr. A.Celestine Raj Manohar M.D.,

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