Four thousand times an hour, or more,
     Each day and night, since I was six
           Weeks old inside my mother's womb,

My trusty heart (a metaphor
     Of what?) with ceaseless double clicks
           Has beat. Click-click. Click-click. For whom?

And you, my Lady, not before,
      Or during, did a single drug admix,
           Or cause one click-click to resume;

Nor, when God wakened me and swore
      By his own name and crucifix
            That my new heart would live and bloom

Forever, were you guarantor
      Of this, nor seed. Did you affix
             A root? You wear a cause costume.

And yet you have a noble chore,
      And God decides, not heretics,
             When, after birth, beyond the womb,

You serve. And whom. You never bore
      My germination. Candle wicks 
             Do not cause fire, though all assume,

Since you were there, and since you wore
      Your guise, that you can do such tricks.
             But no. Whatever you exhume

Lies breathless, Lady, on the floor.
       You prop your corpses up with sticks
            Like men, and make the air a tomb.

                                             John Piper
                                             June 16, 2013