"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 the fever-pain in the throbbing temples
Died out with the flush on brow and cheek,
And the lips that had been so parched and burning
Trembled with thanks that she could not speak,
And the eyes where the fever light had faded
Looked up, by her grateful tears made dim,
And she rose and ministered in her household;
She rose and ministered unto him.
"He touched her hand, and the fever left her."
O blessed touch of the Man divine!
So beautiful to arise and serve him
When the fever is gone from your life and mine.
It may be the fever of restless serving
With heart all thirsty for love and praise,
And eyes all aching and strained with yearning
Toward self-set goals in the future days.
Or it may be fever of spirit anguish,
Some tempest of sorrow that does not down,
Till the cross at last is in meekness lifted
And the head stoops low for the thorny crown.
Or it may be a fever of pain and anger,
When the wounded spirit is hard to bear,
And only the Lord can draw forth the arrows
Left carelessly, cruelly rankling there.
Whatever the fever, his touch can heal it;
Whatever the tempest, his voice can still.
There is only a rest as we seek his pleasure,
There is only a rest as we choose his will.
And some day, after life's fitful fever,
I think we shall say, in the home on high,
"If the hands that he touched but did his bidding,
How little it matters what else went by!"
Ah, Lord, Thou knowest us altogether,
Each heart's sore sickness, whatever it be;
Touch thou our hands! Let the fever leave us,
And so shall we minister unto thee!