Health of the Sick

Dim dupes of mortal science and despair,

Alarm and fright are now our daily dole,

Infected by panic, we wither in its snare,

Whilst lepers, not of flesh, but of the soul,

Make fear of death our one and only law;

Our muted cries by howling fiends are hushed

As Satan rakes us with his poisoned claw:

All they who trust in man, by men are crushed.

Bringer of Him who makes the blind to see,

Ministress of Life, Ampoule of our God,

From sin’s contagion undefiled and free,

Swaddler of Heaven on earth’s wounded sod,

Health of the Sick, sweet Mother, Virgin pure,

In scorning thee, we spit upon our Cure!