The Girl at Larry Wilkins' Door

Leave feeble prayers to feeble faith,
and little prayers to little.
Pin tiny idols
to Sailor Gutlzer's bloody blouse,
who at seven
has fallen further
than most of us
will ever fall,
her bare feet threading
cold thorny thickets
in backwoods Kentucky. She leaves
a cockpit warm with blood,
a mother dead,
a father
dead,
a darling sister, almost inseparable, dead,
and dead her dearest cousin.
Many pray for her,
that in her grief
she will know
a peace,
a place,
a plan,
the grace to ring a stranger's bell. They will pray
that she will cope
with her new
loneliness.

Well let them pray. If they
call this a miracle
then whatever befalls
this fallen child
will satisfy
such easy terms. They'll say
this is a proof
of fallen man.
They will forget her name
at most
before the week
is out.

Leave them
to their idols. Remember
what he said, how those with faith
beyond the smallest speck
could splash the seas
with mountains,
heal sickness,
give sight,
do signs and miracles
so great
none could escape
their source
and majesty--and don't forget,
the tour de force,
that one true sign of all,
that death itself
must bend, must give
when those with faith recall.

Leave them.

To Louisville we go,
far longer gone
was Lazarus than they.
Dim gods dim comforts give, but we--!
We serve the God of glory.
We'll rouse the coroner tonight
with resurrection songs.
He'll tremble when
those four dead rise.
We'll right these wrongs.