A man came to the door today.
Long hair, blue eyes, six three.
He said he was in the area,
Giving estimates for free.
He said that he could mow the lawn,
Do any odd jobs I could find.
He made no mention of saving souls
Or healing the sick or the blind.
I showed him to the garden shed,
Where the tools and the mower were stored,
And I noticed the scars on the palms of his hands
As he reached for the mower cord.

I said, "Are you who I think you are?"
And he told me to lower my voice.
He made me promise to keep his secret.
He said he had no choice.
He said he'd tried to walk the road
That he thought he was meant to take
But it left him open to ridicule
And taunts of FREAK and FAKE.
Then psychiatric analysis,
Intravenous aid,
And tests that just confirmed
The diagnosis that they'd made.

"They say I'm schizophrenic," he said
"And I think they may be right
Because now that I take the tablets
I no longer see the light,
Feel the urge to help mankind
Or fortell of its demise.
I have no interest in God and his love
Or the devil's hate and lies.
I simply mow the lawns
And fix things where I can.
I am not the son of God
I'm just an ordinary man."

It seems that modern medicine
Had cured him of his ills.
Made him ordinary
With its sugar coated pills.
Cured him of his caring.
And his passion for humanity.
Freed him from the shackles
Of his obvious insanity.
But what if he was right?
With no illness or affliction.
What if the healing,
Was in fact...
A chemical crucifixion?