Frequently tempted, he fell from grace,
And as often he found the devil to pay;
But by diligent scourging and diligent purging
He managed to keep Old Nick at bay.
This was the plight of our anchorite,—
An endless penance condemned to dree,—
When it chanced one day there came his way
A Mystical Book with a golden Key.
This Mystical Book was a guide to health,
That none might follow and go astray;
While a turn of the Key unlocked the wealth
That all unknown in the Scriptures lay.
Disease is sin, the Book defined;
Sickness is error to which men cling;
Pain is merely a state of mind,
And matter a non-existent thing.
If a tooth should ache, or a leg should break,
You simply “affirm” and it’s sound again.
Cut and contusion are only delusion,
And indigestion a fancied pain.
For pain is naught if you “hold a thought,”
Fevers fly at your simple say;
You have but to affirm, and every germ
Will fold up its tent and steal away.
From matin gong to even-song
Ambrose pondered this mystic lore,
Till what had seemed fiction took on a conviction
That words had never possessed before.
“If pain,” quoth he, “is a state of mind,
If a rough hair shirt to silk is kin,—
If these things are error, pray where’s the terror
In scourging and purging oneself of sin?
“It certainly seemeth good to me,
By and large, in part and in whole.
I’ll put it in practice and find if it fact is,
Or only a mystical rigmarole.”