We saw the bruise and ugly eye
She saw the face of God
We backed away in fearsome cry
She bore them to her Lord

@ We praised her for her touch of love
She gave them to her King
Seen by the world as a noble dove
She did to God our praises sing

Though raised in somewhat noble birth
She heard the voice of God
And gave up all her fortunes worth
to pick Christ's battle sword

A sword against the painful dust
of poor Calcutta's streets
She gave them bread, she ate the crust
and planted a living beat

But though her pass we now will mourn
We remember her work in streets and guts
May this saint, though beat has gone
Beat on within our hearts