She was, she believed, a virtuous woman,

Why, she went to church every day!

And she sat in full view in the very first pew,

So everyone would see how she prayed!


With her, she carried a bible and rosary,

Where ever she went, in her purse,

Whatever the date, she’d step up to the plate,

Quoting for everyone, chapter and verse;


She went to the funerals of all the church members,

And she’d stand with the mourners, lamenting,

and prayed out loud to the heavens above,

for the soul of the one they were sending;


She saved all her pennies to give to the missions,

for those pagan souls some where over the sea,

She gave old clothes to the Salvation Army,

and she worked in the soup kitchen, for free.


But her own soul was tight, like a hard little ball,

Resisting the freedom of giving,

This virtuous woman, who had so much to give,

Had nothing of love in her living.


She died as she lived, a pauper at heart,

As if giving love would make her soul break,

The priest who said mass the day of her funeral,

was puzzled no one came to her wake.


Sandra Lee Smith

originally posted June 19, 2010

Updated September 28, 2018

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