The New Saints

The New Saints

In quiet streets where lanterns gleam,
They walk not in robe nor haloed dream,
But in the stead of work‑worn hands,
A cup of tea, a lent a hand.

They mend the broken fence, they sow
The seed of hope where shadows grow,
They share their last slice of bread,
And lift the weary soul instead.

No stained‑glass windows hold their name,
Yet in each act they fan the flame
Of kindness, old as Britain’s soil,
A quiet canon, free of toil.

So raise a cheer, not for the crowned,
But for the saints who walk the ground
In everyday, unassuming guise—
The new saints, humble, wise, and true.