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As I lie dying  (or some rehearsal
thereof),  I request a touch
of the oils from a stand-in
for the arisen healer
who brooks no delay of mercy.

More than a thumbprint!  A smear
of blessing on forehead and palms.
Let it sink in.  May it awaken
my body guards to their charge
of rebuffing the cells in rampage.

Send in your proxy, Jesus,
to lay hands on this scarred
and balding head, the way you
patted the curls of children
when your aides could not be bothered.

As my kin hover about me,
Anointer,  who patted the curls
of children,  have your proxy
lay hands on this furrowed head.
My waters if troubled,  soothe.

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