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More poetry therapy... directly related to my thoughts on Christianity and Stigmata

There are no rites to know,
She only has a story to tell.
Hit her head against her foe,
Now she's fallen down the well.

What is it about the true hymms,
That always seem to make her cry?
When did it stop being "Her" words,
Becoming now the story of "I"?

As a child the words moved action,
As a youth they caused her pain.
As an adult they have this reaction,
She is now alone and strange.

When you hear of demon possesion,
Do you have a moment of faith?
Ears perking at the word transgression,
Seeking rituals to make you safe?

And in the end this mystery,
Remains exactly what it was.
She is haunted by ancient history,
Can't explain what she does.

The memories, not hers to tell,
But yet it is in her very meat.
What causes that blood to well,
In both palm and in her feet.

Author's Note

Comments and Crits welcome.