A scene

paraplegic
blind
maimed
mute
all sorts
healed in the foothills.

We often see you as a robotic medicine machine
among four thousand.

Objective doctor of odorous sin.

Yet to be in the crowd and stare
back at you, after you carress my
withered foot for me to
test my leaps,
you glisten with tears:

Jewels to offer in
response to my
release from pain:

Subjective sweetness of surrender to
my care.

You obviously felt resultant
health and joy from each touch you gave.

And even reading now in cold text(Matt. 15)
about the fortunate in Tyre and Sidon,
I realize that I dully believe
that you must still walk again,

searching
for our pain,

glistening for our joy when we
surrender to your
meandering and potent
compassionate measures of grace.

Allow me the life fully described
by a healing of my faith.