(Matt. 8:15, R. V.)

"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 whence 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!"
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.

So many a life is one long fever!
A fever of anxious suspense and care;
A fever of fretting, a fever of getting,
A fever of hurrying here and there.

Ah, what if in winning the praise of others
We miss at the last the King's "Well done"-
If our self-sought tasks in the Master's vineyard
Yield "nothing but leaves" at the set of sun!

"He touched her hand, and the fever left her"-
Oh, blessed touch of the Man Divine!
So beautiful then 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 a fever of spirit-anguish-
Some tempest of sorrow that dies 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 joy as we seek His pleasure,
There is only 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-
So shall we minister unto Thee.

Edith G. Cherry