In the heartland of Siena, where the cypress shadows sway, Echoes still a humble voice, of a Saint from yesterday. Saint Bernardino, he was called, a Franciscan priest so kind, His stories of love and faith, still echo in our mind.
A mendicant in sandals worn, who tread on cobblestone, Through alleys of despair and want, he chose not to live alone. He lived among the humble folk, with the poor and the frail, Preaching not in grandeur, but in tales simple and frail.
His sermons, they were lessons, in empathy and grace, With rhetoric that stirred the hearts, of the common populace. Against the greed of avarice, and the folly of pride, He stood, a beacon of humble virtue, in the ebbing tide.
Oh, his words were not of fire, nor of brimstone and of dread, But of love and of compassion, and of sharing daily bread. He painted not a vengeful God, but a Father, patient and kind, Who seeks not to judge and condemn, but to enlighten the blind.
In silence and in solitude, he sought the Divine, In the whispers of the wind, in the sway of the pine. Franciscan in his ethos, champion of the meek, His life, a testament to the truth, that the strong should lift the weak.
With the symbol of the Sun, and the Name of Jesus bright, He held aloft the holy message, in the darkest night. His voice it rang through Siena, across centuries and space, Reminding us, in every soul, God’s love takes its place.
Now, a silent stone remains, marking where he stood, In the heart of Siena, in that humble neighborhood. Yet, in every act of kindness, in every selfless deed, Lives the spirit of Saint Bernardino, in every heart that heeds.