Many thought his words inspired;

Said he knew what passed within them

When by sin or doubt assailed;

True it is, his words could win them,

Often, when all else had failed.

He would find what all were seeking,

Justice pure, and judgment right!

Still the abbot, seldom speaking,

Pale and sober, prayed for light.

Light was sent! For, toiling slowly

O'er the sun-baked desert road,

Came that Father, wise and holy,

Bent beneath a weary load!

Scarce his failing limbs sustained him,

For the burden sorely pressed:

Many times, as though it pained him,

Would he stand to breathe and rest.

One who watched for his arriving,

Went and told them he was near.

Up they rose, and ceased their striving,

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