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