
A saint sat by the river, watching the water. He had been there many hours.

A scorpion fell into the current. It struggled, half-submerged, turning.

The saint reached in and lifted the scorpion onto his palm. The scorpion stung him.

He dropped it. It fell back into the water. It began to drown again. He reached in and lifted it. It stung him.

He dropped it. He reached again. Again it stung him. Again.

A fisherman passing on the bank stopped to watch.
“Holy one,” the fisherman called, “why do you keep lifting it? It only stings you.”

“Its nature is to sting,” the saint said. “Mine is to save.”“Why should its nature change mine?”

The saint reached again.