Like a Living Hymn
He knelt, and the floor was anything but malleable beneath his old, aching knees.
He clasped his hands, and noticed with one small, idle part of his brain that they trembled involuntarily, as they had never used to before.
He bowed his head, and knew – with that same treacherous part of the mind – that the hair on that head had not been dark for many, many years.
"Thou art Father to us all," he whispered, his words barely audible to any human ears – but audible, he hoped, to the only One who needed to hear them.
"It was Thy decree that man be kind to his brother, and in Thy holy name, I have tried to be so. Please, Lord… let this man find You, and let him find peace."
With a final, quiet "amen", the old man slowly rose, helping himself up against the back of a chair. He had fed, sheltered, and protected the stranger as best he could – and now he had prayed. He knew not what else to do…
…but he heard Mme. Magloire humming tunelessly to herself from outside his window, and he heard the earliest-rising birds joining in – perhaps as a cheerful protest against her tone deaf attempt – and to his ears, it was sweeter than the most worshipful hymn – and he felt that, perhaps, God had been listening.