Jean-Baptiste Marie Vianney was not hypocritical at all. To him I dedicate my following poem about him. The vicar of Ars He was a simple farmer's son, always working hard; gave to every beggarman, soon the better part. Learning was so difficult, Latin too was sore; but he could become a priest, for there were no more. Was appointed parish priest, went to Ars on foot; could not find the way alone, so he stayed and stood. "Fellows, will you show the way to my parish place, then I'll show you how to go to the angels' space." Church was empty and forlorn no one there to stay, therefore during many hours, he was there to pray. "Fellows, what a luxury in that parish house! Bring away that furniture, without any pause." And the food that he did eat was but mouldy bread; water was the drink he drank, praying still in bed. But he spent his heritage for the church alone; chasuble was always new, not one broken stone.
Every sunday shrilled his voice "Oh, beware of hell!" And then smiling he would say: "There is heaven as well!" He did found an orphanage, without any coin. "That's saint Philomena's work, I did only join." But the devil now was mad, he made noise like hell. Every night he smashed his load in the vicar's cell. "The devil cannot hurt me now, he cannot take my soul; he is my comrade, so to speak, but he's black like coal." And confessants came to him in that church so small, and the meagre parish priest listened to them all. "Woman, you pray without use, for you are too proud." "Then shall I be bound for hell?" "God will help you out." On the railroad many sick came to him by train; he just prayed for them to cure, they returned all sane. The bishop of the diocese sent a curate there; then the vicar went away, to flee anywhere. But the people of the town found him where he stayed. And no malice did he bear, but he only prayed.
With his penitential belt he grew slowly old; and his wise and tired words were precious like gold. And the people throughout France all were moved to tears when the poor old vicar died after many years. Thus the noise came to an end, going to his Lord; never got a pause on earth, seeing God henceforth. A Hennie Reuvers