Saint Herman
In the wild breath of Alaska,
where the wind carries the scent of pine and salt,
a monk walks alone,
cloth worn thin by the weight of prayer and cold.
Herman, they call him —
a soul shaped by faith,
steady as the mountains that rise beyond the shore,
quiet as the snow settling on silent forests.
He came from far away,
leaving behind warmth and familiar chants,
drawn by a call deeper than the sea’s roar,
to serve, to protect, to bring light
to those who dwell in shadow.
His hands, rough with labor,
blessed waters that healed a child’s fever,
softened hardened hearts with words
whispered like a prayer through the icy air.
The wolves watched him,
not as a threat, but as a guardian —
the forest itself a silent witness
to miracles spun from simple faith.
Nights stretched long and lonely,
but the candle in his cell never faltered,
a beacon for wandering souls and lost prayers.
He bore the weight of hardship
not as burden, but as grace,
the cold biting but never breaking,
because inside, a fire burned brighter than the northern lights.
St. Herman — a quiet storm,
a steady breath in wilderness vast and unforgiving,
whose miracles were not loud proclamations,
but gentle touches that linger like the scent of incense,
a promise of hope,
of mercy,
of God’s enduring presence.
Copyright ©
aaron murray
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