The following two poems and their commentary come from a book entitled: The Poetry of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux. The first poem that she wrote was entitled CANTICLE TO OBTAIN THE CANONIZATION OF THE VENERABLE JOAN OF ARC, which was written May 8, 1894.

In passing, we need to mention the historical context of this composition. On January 27, 1894, Pope Leo XIII authorized the introduction of Joan of Arc's cause for beatification, in virtue of which she received the title, "Venerable." From then on it was permitted to "honor her and pray to her publicly," as the Lisieux newspaper Le Normandy explained on January 30.

In the weeks that followed, Thérèse's uncle, Isiodore Guérin, devoted several articles to this event. From the outset he showed his colors: "God raised her up to show through her weakness the greatness of His power and so to confound the pride of man." (Joan of Arc, Le Normandy, 2/3/1894).

A commission presided over by Henri Wallon soon drafted a bill in the National Assembly proposing that May 8th be celebrated annually as a national holiday of "patriotism" to honor Joan of Arc. Monsieur Guérin saw this chiefly as a scheme of the Freemasons to take this French heroine back into their camp and to "secularize" her. (Le Normandy, 5/5/1894).

If joy at Joan's rising glory was great all across France, Lisieux shared in it in a special way. In effect, the town represented Joan's "blood money" : "It was at Orleans that she carried off one of her most brilliant successes, it was at Rouen where she was burned, and Lisieux was the price paid for her life." (I. Guérin). The allusion to Judas's betrayal of Jesus was clear. But here the traitor was the Bishop, Pierre Cauchon, who was made bishop of Lisieux in 1432, which was of less importance than his old bishopric of Beauvais, in return for "services rendered" to the English. So on May 8th 1894, "a precious flag of the glorious Liberatrix" was placed in the chapel built by Cauchon in the apse of the cathedral of Saint Peter right where he was buried. This was the very chapel where Thérèse, as a girl, had attended daily Mass.

The pastor of Saint Peter's set up a committee of young women to make preparations for the celebration on May 8th, 1894. Céline Martin, Saint Thérèse's sister, was one of its most active members. With Marie Guérin and other friends, she sewed "twelve great white banners strewn with fleurs-de-lis. Each banner was twenty one feet long." (Letter from Marie Guérin to Mme. Le Néele, May 1894)

Le Normandy wrote that the holiday, "as patriotic as religious, promises to be particularly touching. The church will be brilliantly lighted" (5/1/1894). Five thousand people jammed into the cathedral. The atmosphere was more like a joyful village fair than a religious ceremony. Le Normandy's chronicler with the sharp pen was hard put to control his displeasure. ("The Festivities for Joan of Arc," 5/12/1894, article signed "I.G.")

We find varied nuances of this enthusiasm - with its ambivalent causes and effects - to a different degree in the titles Thérèse used for the original copy of her canticle: "A French Soldier, Defender of the Church, Admirer of Joan of Arc." Thérèse dedicated her poem to her sister, the "gallant knight C. Martin."

(Melody: "Pitié, mon Dieu")

1 God of hosts, the whole Church

Soon wishes to honor at the altar

A martyr, a warrior virgin,

Whose sweet name resounds in Heaven.

Refr.1 Refrain

By Your power,

O King of Heaven,

Give to Joan of France

The halo and the altar. Repeat

2 A conqueror for guilty France

No, that is not the object of her desire.

Joan alone is capable of saving it.

All heroes weigh less than a martyr!

3 Lord, Joan is Your splendid work,

A heart of fire, a warrior's soul:

You gave them to the timid virgin

Whom You wished to crown with laurels.

4 In her humble meadow Joan heard

Voices from Heaven calling her into combat.

She left to save her country.

The sweet child commanded the army.

5 She won over the souls of proud warriors

The Divine luster of Heaven's messenger,

Her pure gaze, her fiery words

Were able to make bold brows give way....

6 By a prodigy unique in history,

People then saw a trembling monarch

Regain his crown and his glory

By means of a child's weak arm.

7 It is not Joan's victories

We wish to celebrate this day.

My God, we know her true glories

Are her virtues, her love.

8 By fighting, Joan saved France.

But her great virtues

Had to be marked with the seal of suffering,

With the divine seal of Jesus her Spouse!

9 Sacrificing her life at the stake,

Joan heard the voice of the Blessed.

She left this exile for her homeland.

The savior Angel re-ascended into Heaven!...

10 Joan, you are our only hope.

From high in the Heavens, deign to hear our voices.

Come down to us, come convert France.

Come save her a second time.

Refr. 2 Refrain

By the power

Of the Victorious God

Save, save France

Angel Liberator!... repeat

11 Chasing the English out of all France,

Daughter of God, how beautiful were your steps!

But remember that in the days of your childhood

You tended only weak lambs...

Refr. 3 Refrain

Take up the defense

Of the powerless

Preserve innocence

In the souls of children. repeat

12 Sweet martyr, our monasteries are yours.

You know well that virgins are your sisters,

And like you the object of their prayers

Is to see God reign in every heart.

Refr. 4 Refrain

To save souls

Is their desire.

Ah! Give them your fire

Of apostle and martyr! repeat

13 Fear will be banished from every heart

When we shall see the Church crown

The pure brow of Joan our Saint,

And then we shall be able to sing:

Refr. 5 Refrain

Our hope

Rests in you,

Saint Joan of France,

Pray, pray for us! repeat

The circumstances behind Thérèse's second poem are interesting as well as painful. For years an impostor, Leo Taxil, had contrived a imaginary person named "Diana Vaughon," and circulated a false story that she had converted from Satanism and Freemasonry to Catholicism.

Thérèse and the Carmelites of Lisieux, like most French Catholics, were completely taken in by this story. Thérèse was especially impressed that this conversion had taken place through the intercession of Joan of Arc. She even wrote a short play about it, entitled THE TRIUMPH OF HUMILITY, in which she showed that the main weapon to defeat Satan is humility.

Mother Agnes also asked Thérèse to write a poem for "Diana," but the inspiration would not come. Instead, Thérèse sent "Diana" a photograph. The previous year Thérèse had written a play entitled, JOAN OF ARC ACCOMPLISHING HER MISSION and this photograph was taken at that time. It shows Thérèse in costume portraying an imprisoned Joan in chains and her sister Céline as Saint Catherine who was comforting Joan. An enlargement of this photo was used as a backdrop at a well-orchestrated press conference in the heart of Paris, when Leo Taxil on the night of April 19, 1897, revealed to more than four hundred people that he himself was "Diana Vaughan."

He did this disgraceful farce to embarrass the Holy See because it was encouraging devotion to the real Joan. He portrayed "Diana" as "a new Joan of Arc" and used Joan's name and her mission to deceive French Catholics. A few days later the newspaper Le Normandy described how Taxil had chosen this photo to make fun of devotion to Joan of Arc. This betrayal of Joan wounded Thérèse too because it was her own photo of Joan as prisoner that had been jeered at that night.

Thus in May of 1897, Thérèse felt the need to rediscover the mystery of Joan of Arc, as if to identify with Joan in the passion she herself was going through and wrote the poem entitled: TO JOAN OF ARC. At the time Thérèse was in great pain from and dying of tuberculosis.

It was not in victory and glory that Joan was fulfilled, but in the "dungeon" and in "betrayal," where she identified with Jesus. And He, by His death, gives every suffering its "charm." Thérèse also felt she was "at the bottom of a black dungeon, laden with heavy chains" in her trial of faith. She was drinking "the bitter cup of the Beloved" in her illness. Thérèse was deeply humiliated at the very time she was struggling in her trial of faith and in her illness. There are some sufferings so deep that we have to bear them alone....To us she also seems "more radiant and more beautiful in her dark prison."

When the Lord God of hosts gave you the victory,

You drove out the foreigner and had the king crowned.

Joan, your name became renowned in history.

Our greatest conquerors paled before you.

But that was only a fleeting glory.

Your name needed a Saint's halo.

So the Beloved offered you His bitter cup,

And, like Him, you were spurned by men.

At the bottom of a black dungeon,laden with heavy chains,

The cruel foreigner filled you with grief.

Not one of your friends took part in your pain.

Not one came forward to wipe your tears.

Joan, in your dark prison you seem to me

More radiant, more beautiful than at your King's coronation.

This heavenly reflection of eternal glory,

Who then brought it upon you? It was betrayal.

Ah! If the God of love in this valley of tears

Had not come to seek betrayal and death,

Suffering would hold no attraction for us.

Now we love it; it is our treasure.

This poem was written by Sister Mary Therese, in response to her brother's death during the World War II naval battle at Corregidor.

The night is down on Domremy,

Dark wings have circled every tree,

Shut out the stars and steeped the sky,

In anguish lifted like a cry.

Shaking the young stars from her gown,

Pushing the moon back, Joan peers down,

On lands by terror twisted bare,

That shakes with battle everywhere.

A blight is on the world again;

A blight is on the souls of man;

And dark is death and dark is birth,

As sorrow runs along the earth.

How can she keep her soul in calm,

When towers of Reims and Notre Dame,

Send up their cry of muted bells,

That tear her breast with moans and knells?

How must her hands have ached to hold,

Her shining sword when pain patrolled,

The glory-ridden crimson shore,

Of Batan and Corregidor.

How must her lips have burned to cry,

A challenge to the southern sky,

For heroes who would never see,

The sunset stain the Coral Sea.

Young Joan is restless in the sky;

Young Joan is burning to defy,

The sign that sickens men with pride,

Back to the wars young Joan would ride!

To rout out the bitter pagan horde,

O God of peace, give Joan a sword!

And in this moment, send her down,

To Domremy, to every town!

The next poem Virginia Frohlick wrote in her freshman year of High School. The original title was Ode To A Soldier, then she changed the title to, For Love of Saint Joan. Not satisfied with those two she played with these possibilities, A Tribute To Saint Joan, or Ode To The Soldier Joan. Which one do you think is best?

The cock did crow on that blessed and holy night.

His call rang forth news of great joy in the land filled with blight.

For in that dark and empty sky there but shone one star bright!

The Maid, the savior of France, was born to stun the sight!

As a child of God, she grew straight and true in her faith.

And in that simple little village she learned to pray.

Little did she know that God would have a hand in her fate.

That she would lead an army, His will to obey.

In her father's garden, she saw her holy vision's display.

She listened to their sacred counsel in wide-eyed wonder.

It would come to pass that she would heed their voice until her final day.

And her name would ride across France in a roar of thunder.

To Vaucouleurs, that little town, she one day did ride.

Where Squire Robert and his knights, Bertrand and Jean, did 'bide.

To ask them humbly to help to turn the raging English tide.

To help her to that far off place, Chinon, where the Dauphin did hide.

The Squire girded on, around her waist a sword of gold.

"Let come what may, your story must be told."

The small band sallied forth with spirit bold.

Their faith in her did soar despite the windy cold.

Through dangers untold they rode till they came to Chinon.

Straight way she went to the Dauphin and spoke of what should be.

"God bless thee, gentle Dauphin. Thou shalt have liberty.

I shall lead thy army and break thy heavy bond."

While in silent prayer her soul would soar before the throne of God.

On a milk-white charger she sallied forth with banner in hand.

With the goodly purpose of delivering her war torn land.

"Forward to victory!" she said to her men. "For so will's Our Lord and God!"

The English, around Orleans, were eager the French to slay.

Her army was prepared to give the English their just pay.

The valiant French fought, died, and won on the eighth of May.

And a grateful people would remember with pride that blessed day.

Comrades in arms she had three; Dunois, Alençon and La Hire.

To Orleans, Jargeau, Meung, Beaugency they rode without fear.

They followed wherever she led. Together they avenged the French defeat at Poitiers.

In the English camp they trembled for they knew their end was near.

"Do not tarry here any longer but come to the worthy town.

Listen not, my Dauphin, to those who would lead you astray.

But come straight way to the holy city of Reims and take thy crown.

You have nothing to fear; I have already cleared the way."

Grandly dressed people in fabric rich, blue, red and yellow.

To Reims Cathedral came for Charles' coronation.

As the organ played its notes so pure and mellow.

They watched the Dauphin --- NOW THE KING, in envious admiration!

Emotion over came her and to her knees she fell.

"My good King, you are crowned; my work here is done."

"Arise my child, good news, your parents to you have come.

Now go to them, my child, with all your love to tell."

She darted across the darkened room; into their open arms she flew.

Gently she pressed her kisses upon their elderly brow, so lavishly.

And with tears and warm embraces they hug, so affectionately.

There in that dark little room, the brightness of their love showed through.

But their content would not last because of Duke de la Tremoille.

To deceive the naive Charles so that he could France betray.

Into a false and lying truce, with England and Burgundy.

And in doing so leave to the enemy, Joan as prey.

"I must go to Compiegne, the enemy there to fight!"

Heading her small band, she led straight into the enemies' might.

While in the jaws of battle, she was untimely taken.

Though in Burgundian hands her great spirit was not shaken.

Sold to the mighty English King for ten thousand gold pounds.

Taken like a savage animal in an iron cage through French towns.

Until she reached a dark, damp hole --- the Rouen prison!

There she suffered five torturous months, never to know the sun!

To win the Archbishopric of Rouen, his fondest wish,

So to gain, Bishop Cauchon would obey the scheming English.

And so because of this, he would betray a girl to her doom.

And have the pitiless flames of the stake be her tomb.

It was May and the birds took wing and soared into the sky.

"Joan, you have led yourself to your own excommunication!"

For her King who had left her thus, there was no condemnation.

Nor in that bleak empty moment was there any question --- Why?

Chained tight to that rough stake she shed many mournful tears.

For she knew that her cruel and woeful death was near.

She looked for a glimpse of hope, but found only English jeers.

The time had come for her final victory --- over fear!

Her eyes upturned, she saw Him Who had died for us.

And in a loud clear voice, she cried out, "JESUS, JESUS!"

That soul made free to soar, rose up in the form of a dove.

To Him Who had sent her, to tell the world of His love.

When the world is dark and empty will they remember

Saint Joan of Arc, that gentle little soldier, so brave and free?

When men's hearts are devoid of hope, will they remember

The Maid, the savior of France, who fought for liberty?

Composed by Andrea Oefinger of New Town, CT. - 1998.

And in the days of darkness and corruption

there would be born unto the world,

Joan the Maid, Daughter of God,

the second greatest story ever told!

To herald a message divine,

she would leave all that she loved behind.

Devoted to God in her entirety,

to become the best loved heroine of all time!

This pious virgin and mystic

was to be enrolled into the army of God,

addressed and advised by angels and Saints

in righteousness her feet were shod!

Devout and valiant warrior

whose hands held the banner aloft,

to save both Kingdom and Country

to uphold justice no matter the cost!

Fearless Pucelle of Lorraine,

ever vigilant and strong,

sent forth with gifts of the Spirit,

to put right every wrong.

To sanctify a nation divided,

releasing France from enemy chains,

to ready a country for peace

her life not given in vain!

Joan's heart a stronghold for God,

a pure soul on fire with love.

Ever trusting faithful girl

whose last breath exhaled a dove.

Written by Micheal Watkins of Dallas, Texas - 1998

Saintly Joan,

To many, unknown.

Thy love of God so simple and sublime,

Vowed to thy duty Among His beauty

That unites your soul to mine.

Unfathomable eyes of gray

Glaring with holy ray

Engendered from her visions of Angels upheld alone

What spectacles she's seen

Those eyes, dismally serene

Seeing through one's soul and the fate of her own.

Pure in body and soul

Such a saintly goal

Unveiled in those eyes wherever seen,

Like the full-orbed moon

Hovering in the gloom

Oe'r a distant, snowy crest, a pure and silent crystalline.

Gallant she rides

With God inside

And her ethereal sword and banner held high with might.

Dauntless it may seem

Such courage men then dreamed

That Joan imparted and bore confronting a fight.

Glorified as savior of France

Her good will is enhanced

By prevailing as a hero still existing today,

A short life of a saint

Victorious and quaint

And by emulation of her, she still leads the way.

Inflamed by the church

A misguided lurch

Last words to Bishop Cauchon, "By you I die!"

How she sustained her faith!

And kept her convictions safe!

Joan of Arc, by you I live and wonder why

God took you so soon to be at His side.

Composed by Micheal Watkins of Dallas, Texas - 1998

The springs of life now dehydrated and forlorn,

Ground to the earth by the savage English lance.

With virtue forgotten, supplanted by torment

In boundless gloom which fated to enhance

A miracle prayed for, so a miracle provided-

Such was born the only hope for France.

Slightly dejected, a gaze at her village

Praying by the fount, there flowed her tears

Down her delicate face from caring eyes.

Good-bye to family and these simple years

To sweep away this torment and rid the anguish,

By this lofty maid of seventeen years.

With her obedience to God the footing of her mission

Guided by heavenly voices she rode to see

The sluggish dauphin, estranged from his throne.

He heard her message with a profound sense of mystery.

With the words "Peace be to France, and England, too,"

She relentlessly pursued war's grim misery.

Good-hearted in temper and strategic in war

She imparted God's will to that once unruly hoard.

Inspired by Joan and the sight of her sword,

They battled for France with the utmost of courage.

Elevated, robust, illustrious with might

Her strength came from her love of the Lord.

Bound to God like a shadow to a winter's tree

She was unwilling to deviate from its graceful form.

Gallant she rides and resolute with the triumph

Of her army overcoming the Godons by storm.

The victory she had assured them, was apparent at last

From the blood of this humble maid, France was reborn.

Murky and silent, she's alone in the church

Kneeling in her armor and devoutly she prays.

With habitual reverence she hears her angels

Promising France peaceful days.

By summoning her to this heavy burden and heroic blessing -

Joan's love smothers the cruel blood letting craze.

Such a righteous soul amid shameless schemes

That men of sin wrought this bitter jest

Of a designed treachery that fated her death.

Alas, the flames engulfed her with a cross on her chest.

Her eternal spirit, likewise her memory will be

The work of the Lord, His work at its best.

Composed by Theodore Roberts, 2000

Thunder of riotour hoofs over the quaking sod;

Clash of reeking squadrons, steel-capped, iron-shod;

The White Maid and the white horse, and the flapping banner of God.

Black hearts riding for money; red hearts riding for fame;

The Maid who rides for France and the King who rides for shame -

Gentlemen, fools, and a saint, riding in Christ's high name!

"Dust to dust!" it is written. Wind-scattered are lance and bow;

Dust, the cross of Saint George; dust, the banner of snow.

The bones of the King are crumbled, and rotten the shafts of the foe.

Forgotten, the young knight's valour; forgotten, the captain's skill;

Forgotten, the fear and the hate and the mailed hands raised to kill;

Forgotten, the shields that clashed and the arrows that cried so shrill.

Like a story from some old book, thew battle of long ago;

Shadows, the poor French King and the might of his English foe;

Shadows, the charging nobles and the archers kneeling in a row -

But a flame in my heart and my eyes, the Maid with her banner of snow.

Composed by Lizette Woodworth Reese.

A long the thousand roads of France,

Now there, and here, swift as a glance,

A cloud, a mist blown down the sky,

In Domremy at candlelight,

The orchards blowing rose and white

About the shadowy houses lie;

On Avignon there falls a hush,

Brief as the singing of a thrush

Across old gardens April-high;

Composed by Samantha Williams, October 2000

A hero is what you are,

Your name has traveled near to far.

You fought for us, And the lives we live.

You saved us from death,

And gave your life.

Every night I say a prayer,

And tell God to thank you up there.

Your name will live forever,

Composed by Lavanya Ramanujam, November 2000

(I would also want to thank Dean Lee Evans whose article gave me the inspiration for the title and also Christopher Russell whose article portrayed Joan as I wanted to see her before I started writing this.)

A peasant maid

her heart full of gaiety and pure goodness

her faith firm in God and her family

born in a valley of colors.

An unquestioning believer

her way in the word of the Lord

her purpose all clear and laid out

for Dauphin, but first for France.

A warrior with dignity

her standard reminding people of her purpose

her place at the head to rally the troops

for their country, for their right.

A leader with courage

her inspiration always in place

her guidance and belief never mislaid

for all those who dared to hope afresh.

A mortal like all of us

but her soul full of immortal goodness and trust

her death was but a beginning for France

her life - a valley of stunning colors.

Composed by Karl Oeyvind Brobakk of Norway 2001

Domremy Was Your Home

That Is Well Known

Your Voices So Clear

In Your Young Ear

God Gave A Task

Why Me You Ask

What Shall I Do

I Listen To You

Go Crown The King

The Angels Did Sing

A Girl Like Me

How Could It Be

It Must Be Done

You Are The One

Show Me The Way

And I Will Pray

An Army You Need

France Must Be Freed

All The Soldiers Obeyed

For The Beloved Maid

The Savior You Are

The Legend Goes Far

Your Banner So White

Your Predictions So Right

You Had Your Faith

And Your Enemies Hate

The End Was Near

The English Did Fear

The News Was Bad

The Story Is Sad

Captured And Later Sold

You Were Not Old

Treated So Very Unfair

Pain You Did Bear

Betrayed By Your King

Why Such A Thing

A Trail Of Lies

Seen In Their Eyes

Burnt On The Stake

By Justice So Fake

Words Can Not Say

Your Feelings That Day

Your Life Slipped Away

But Is Remembered Today

The 30th Of May

Is This Very Day

You Made Your Mark

Even In The Dark

Through War And Truce

Through Glory And Abuse

The Greatness Of You

Will Always Be True

Your Words And Will

Shall Forever Stand Still

In Our Thankful Hearts

Dear Joan Of Arc

Composed by Michael Fantina- June 2001

I climbed the grassy, tree lined hill at noon,
And marveled at its charming sorcery,
Though I had known a girl from Domremy,
Who at first light, or at a pale, pale moon,
Would walk and play and pray each pleasant June.
A child of God, renowned for bravery,
Lost to the world in darkest treachery.
So I knelt down, and mouthed a prayerful rune.

I prayed that I might be, as you once were,
As human as the girls who play here still.
It seemed I whiffed the scent of pungent myrrh,
And gazing down the gently sloping hill,
A girl whose gown and trailing hair were laved
By gentle breezes, smiled, and lightly waved.

Dancing 'round the fairy tree,
In love with life she grew!
Tending sheep and needlework,
Were all the crafts she knew.

Till at length her voices spoke;
Glad tidings they did bring,
Of help to break the foreign yoke!
For she must crown a king!

With banner white and her so black,
She rode into the fray.
And now there'd be no turning back,
…the lilies won the day!

With Michael, Michael, burning bright,
The king was crowned at Reims!
With many battles to be fought,
She longed for homeward wings!

Captured, tried and sentenced,
No ransom for her paid!
They'd not believe the innocence,
Nor mission of the Maid!

From smoke and flames her soul did rise,
A saint for heaven's lists!
For so she broke all earthly ties,
With Jesus on her lips!

THE MAID - LA PUCELLE, + St. Joan of Arc +, (1412 - 1431), the servant of God and deliver of France.

A 2003 poem by

Richard Nicolds of New Mexico

By no mortal hand its adornment wrought,

Majestic stands a door before the path.

Bathed softly in the morning's light,

With gold and silver trimmed about,

It bids forthwith entry to the weary soul.

There before this wondrous gate,

Upon her knees in searing pain,

A maid in tears, her face begrimed,

Though still fair in the bloom of youth,

Finds not the strength to lift the latch.

Her coarse gown tattered, stained and torn,

The marks upon her hands and feet,

Speak of the dungeon's shackles fast,

The iron chains and bolted gates,

That bound her down in some dark pit.

In pain and anguish crying out,

Her trembling voice in tearful plea,

Seven times before the door beseeching,

Then bowed low in submission meek,

She deeply falls into a faint.

She sees not the outstretched arms,

Nor hears the quiet, soothing voice,

She feels not the healing hands,

That soothe her brow and dress her wounds

That gently lift and bear her up.

Refreshed, she awakes and rises up,

Innocent of her travail and sorrow,

And it seems to her that there before,

Once more she sees the beauty of,

The verdant meadows of Lorraine.

She marvels at the gold-stitched cloak

Who's silken folds in splendor lie,

Across her armour burnished bright,

And the crosses of St. Catherine's sword,

Lie once more securely by her side.

In a stone-paved courtyard near,

A marvelous stallion geared for war,

Stands waiting in the morning sun,

With neck arched high and flashing eyes,

Impatient, stamping, eager to be gone.

Light of step, she lithly mounts,

And whirls the mighty charger 'round

Toward what quest, she knows it not,

But feels the passion in her breast,

And vows her best to King and God.

Her loyal page now whispers low,

"Fair maid, turn not aside from this true path,

Keep straight and thy reward is sure,

Beware the perils to those who stray,

Treacherous is the way, and with danger fraught".

On her way but two leagues she's gone,

When from the wood beside the path,

So faintly now she hears a cry,

And reining in, she listens close,

Then hurries forth from off the path.

Within a wretched hovel damp,

But a stone's throw from the path,

She finds a mother weak and thin,

With her children huddled 'round,

Their dark eyes hollow in their want.

Stooping low to enter in,

She gently comforts each in turn,

As the frightened mother whispers low,

"Ah, sweet sister, in thy goodness,

Hast thou come to bear away our shame?"

"We have been long days in famish,

And fain would perish in our want,

Except by thy most good petition,

That the Lord and master of this realm,

Should send us succor by your grace."

"Go in good heart, brave young sister,

But do not linger on the way,

'Tis long through the night's damp chill,

And this harsh Lord no man respecting,

Least not a maid so young and fair."

By cock's crow at the morning,

She weary enters through the gate,

And begs an audience from the master,

Then at his feet she petitions humbly,

For the cast-offs from his morning's fare.

"Full well, you scandalous maid,

You beg my sustenance without shame,

To feed these wretches undeserving,

But what gain to me forthcoming,

Is expected from your empty hands?"

"Ah, kind Sir, you've done me well,

As to myself, in good faith given,

By yon far stream there close by stands,

A charger, well fit for any king or man,

Full ready for your Lordship's hand."

At the light of next day's dawning,

By the mother's side once more she kneels,

And brings sweet comfort to the famished.

As for herself, she asks not even little,

But needs must hurry on her way.

Straight o'erhead the noon-day sun,

Spares not man nor maid within it's wrath.

Standing faint beneath her chafing armour,

She sees ahead, not too far distant,

An archer late from St. George's band.

Approaching now in humble manner,

He beseeches her beside the way.

"Ah sweet sister, in thy goodness,

Lest I fain would perish from my thirst,

Wouldst thou strike away my travail?"

"Alas, fine sir, I have naught to give,

And myself for drink have want,

Though for thy sake would gladly fetch it,

If I but only knew the way,

That thou perisheth not upon my soul."

"Ah, fair maid, high on yon mountain,

Drips Sychar's sweetest spring,

Whose pure water, blessed of old,

Quenched the dusty thirst of Him,

Who can bear away my heavy load."

She casts off now her soldier's cumbrance,

That her journey may be swift,

With not thought for limb or life,

She struggles up the steep and rocky path,

And by night returns the cup into his hands.

Refreshed, uprising, he goes on his way,

And looks not on her aid with thanks,

But leaves her to the starless night.

Where, bereft of armour, she but fitfully sleeps,

In the darkness of a damp and rocky cave.

At morning's light, once more upon her way,

And long the day in bitter wind and cold,

At dusk she comes upon a crowded inn,

And turns aside and seeks entrance at the door,

In hope of warmth and comfort there.

Just outside the inn's warm cheer,

A ragged beggar scorned and outcast, sits,

In pain and want, with outstretched arms,

He begs for mercy from her hands,

And forthwith she stoops and gently bears him up.

Then to the keeper of the inn,

Without purse or means, she still implores,

For but a meager meal, a blanket by the hearth,

Not for herself, but for the wretch,

Who, without, would perish in his need.

"I have but room for one tonight,

And what, from likes of you, would be my reward?"

Wherewith, she draws the jeweled sword,

Of Saint Catherine from beneath her cloak,

And with pain, lays it gently on the board.

He grasps the sword in greedy hands,

And draws the wretched beggar in,

"By faith, I'll do for him the best",

Then thrusts her out into the windy night,

And closes fast and bars the door.

Through the long and dreary night,

Though upon the damp and rocky ground she lays,

The fullness of her heart sweet comfort gives,

'Till the break, once more of morning's light,

Finds her well upon her way again.

With determined step, she hurries through the day,

And thinks no more to turn aside,

But there beside the road, in need a young girl lies,

Broken and ashamed, of raiment stripped,

She tries to cover now her nakedness in vain.

"Look not upon me in my shame, sweet sister,

On one so undeserving, can thou mercy show?"

Here with her kerchief in clear water dipped,

She gently washes back the skin to whiteness,

And brings to luster once again her golden hair.

She clothes her warm from off herself,

And wraps her gold-stitched cloak around,

She from the trash heap draws a tattered dress,

And ill-clothed in rags of faded red,

She returns the child again into its father's arms.

The night is spent in fragrant hay,

Unbidden in the dampness of a farmer's field,

And as the sunrise breaks into another morn,

She pauses but beside a stream to drink,

And sets out again upon her way.

Around a wood she skirts a village wide about,

With barking dogs, and churlish threats,

Maligned by stones and taunting scorn,

"Linger not, you ragged beggar girl, be gone,

We have no need for likes of you, move on, move on."

In haste she flees, and stumbling, finds her way,

Before the flowered path and open door,

Of a humble cottage, she sees once neatly kept,

Where within lies one, late of noble station,

Who's racked now with pain and fever burning.

With gentle hands she cools the fevered brow

But knows she must now brave the town,

And find the soothing herbs her mother taught,

That in her tender care will, like Gilead's balm,

Soothe and bring relief unto this tortured soul.

Soon she finds, amid the insults and the strife,

The needed potion, at a price, upon a merchant's shelf,

And from out her bosom draws the banner dear to her,

That stood its place for all to see, in Charles' royal court,

And offers it, with trembling hands, to satisfy the cost.

Two days she waits and tends the lady in her need,

With gentle touch and solace in her quiet voice,

She soothes and brings again the blush upon her cheek,

But now, with tear dimmed eyes, she bids farewell,

And turns her face once more toward the unknown road.

By night she finds herself within the walls of town,

As down a dark and treacherous street she's drawn,

From out the shadows black, on bended knee,

An aged crone, with out stretched arms, beseeches her,

And begs in mournful tone, but a moment for her delay.

"Oh, listen now, fair maid, I would you plead,

For beyond your ragged clothes and forlorn look,

Methinks I see you well, and know your heart,

You may on heaven's errand well be sent,

To relieve my want, and bear away my shame."

"My brother once a man both good and true,

But by false witness spitefully given,

Hath lost his youth these many years,

Chained in this dank and loathsome cell,

Where by all I fear, his days may soon be ending."

She turns now in at the prison door,

Though with fear her frail body trembling,

And seeks there the gaolers now to plead,

The wretch for whom she needs must soothe,

Though naught she has, for his release to gain.

Though in rags, before her sweet spirit and fair form,

The gaolers foul contend not against her request,

And slink into a darkened corner of the room,

From which they can not cast their carnal thoughts,

For it seems an angel there before them treads.

She draws him close within her arms,

And against her breast she comforts him,

As the sweet breath of spring these years forgotten,

His spirit now his body flees and upward flies,

Shriven by the freshness of her beauty and her youth.

She now would from this squalid dungeon foul,

Make her way once more into the night,

But there stands one, more vile than all the rest,

Who holds fast the door, and with an oath,

Demands a tribute there, that she may pass.

She now offers him her ring of gold,

That from her mother's hand was given.

The vile rogue clutches it with filthy claws,

And rudely shoves her back outside the door,

From whence she must find her way once more.

The crone waits not in the shadows there,

And so she sets out again, along the chosen path.

Through town and wood, she trudges on,

And stops not for food or drink or rest,

Like a moth she's drawn, toward a light ahead.

Before a gate more wondrous than the first,

The youthful maid, in tattered dress of red,

Humble and suppliant, on her bended knees,

Looks now toward the Master of the gate,

And with despair upon her brow, petitions entrance in.

"I ask forgiveness that you find me thus,

I have against thee erred upon the way,

And kept not my charge, so nobly sworn,

That I have lost, which to me was given,

And now unworthy before Thee stand."

"Look not with question in thy heart,

Sweet Jehannette, Fille de Dieu,

I have traveled with you upon the way,

And even as you have done it then,

Unto one of these, the least of them..."