He touched her hand and the fever left her;
He touched her hand as only He can,
With the wondrous skill of the Great Physician,
With the tender touch of the Son of Man;
And the eyes, when the fever-light had faded,
Looked up, by her grateful tears made dim;
And she rose and ministered in His household,
She rose and ministered unto Him.
Ah! many a life is one long fever—
A fever of anxious suspense and care;
A fever of getting, a fever of fretting;
A fever of hurrying here and there.
Ah! what if the winning the praise of others
We miss at the last the King’s
If our self sought tasks in the Master’s vineyard
Yield nothing but leaves at set of sun.
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!
Lord, touch our hands, let the fever leave us;
And so shall we minister unto Thee.