“Put your glasses on me girl,” I said.
And you, “But I don’t need them Dad, I’m healed.”
Though fresh-come postcard held to nose tip
Called it lie, your voice echoed belief.
To not be healed meant lack of faith.
A thing not to be countenanced.
So reason must be set upon it’s head.
’thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace.'
Your years of nous and education
Overwritten by euphoria,
Fervent singing, hallelujahs passionate,
Bodies swaying, heaven-reaching hands.
They duped you, charismatic charlatans,
Christ’s supposed ambassadors,
When healing didn’t stick, fault lay with you,
Their out, ’thy faith hath made thee whole.'
Warned not to drive without your glasses,
Something that your licence specifies,
You being healed thought it not now apply.
The major cause the coroner points out.
Could you read the road-works sign? I think not.
You drove ahead with faith in heaven’s care.
Blind in vision, blind to reason, daughter,
Thy faith hath made thee dead; (but) go in peace.