When death opines
T’is solely Thee who grants
Folly of science might reprove
But ev’ry sound mind must know;
The hands that moulds is the hand
That know’st where and when to parch
And the season to dismantle
Healer! Fetish! Doctor!
T’is thee alone whom by grace revives a pallid soul
Yet thy little works doth heal too
But not when the hand of thee is diminished
He who restoreth Jairus’ rotten faith
Shall never make man moan
Thereafter triumphed beyond death, tribulation, indisposition
Do you?
Vain doctor!
Vain healer!
Vain fetish !
Vain vain!
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