Were you not told?
"Do not run."
That care with these sharps was needful?
The Lord's name is a razor.
His Word, a blade.
Lethal, a twitch with this scalpel.
The margins too slight
for the clumsy well-meaning
or the ignorant zeal.
Do you not see the bleeding and the scarred?
Or behold the corpses
in the overflowing morgue?
O mortal, beware to cut.
Pray for the fevered, sickly souls.
That they might find virtuous, practiced hands.
Let the cancers be excised,
with incisions rightly made.
Where the luminous edge glides
between the nerves of the soul,
and the capillaries of the mind.
—inspired by The Book of Love
