He touched her hand and the fever left her,
He touched her hand as He only can,
With the wondrous skill of the Great Physician,
With the tender touch of the Son of Man.
And many a life is one long fever,
The fever of anxious suspense and care,
The fever of fretting, the fever of getting,
The fever of hurrying here and there.
He touched her hand and the fever left her,
Oh, we need His touch on our fevered hands:
The cool still touch of the Man of Sorrows,
Who knows us, and loves us, and understands.
Whatever the fever, His touch can heal it.
Whatever the tempest, His voice can still.
There is only joy as we seek His pleasure.
There is only rest as we choose His will.
Ah, Lord, Thou knowest us altogether,
Each heart’s sore sickness whate’er it be;
Touch Thou our hands, let the fever leave us,
And so shall we minister unto Thee.
-L.O.M.
