This poem is about the occasion when Francis, praying in front of the icon of the crucified Christ in the little church of San Damiano, heard the words: “Repair my church.” His immediate response was to repair the crumbling building he was in.

The Cross at San Damiano

You were drawn to small, neglected churches
just as you were to lepers and the poor.
God met you in the lowliest of places
and hid in a small task your greater call.

Your sense of God was sensory. You saw
and touched this dusty icon, heard this Christ
who, crucified, no longer hangs but stands,
wide-eyed and radiant, wondrously alive.

His eyes, serene and steadfast, fix their gaze
upon his Father. In that interchange
of loving sight all creatures are in view.
His wounds attest his love, his arms invite.

Below his feet are figures now obscured
by hundreds who, like you, have touched and kissed.
Among those obscure faces was your own,
gazing and weeping, waiting for a word.

Written by Richard Bauckham

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