Mid the thronged bustle of the city street,
In the hot hush of noon,
I wait, with folded hands and nerveless feet.
Surely He will come soon.
Surely the Healer will not pass me by,
But listen to my cry.
Long are the hours in which I lie and wait,
Heavy the load I bear;
But He will come ere evening. Soon or late
I shall behold Him there;
Shall hear His dear voice, all the clangor through;
"What wilt thou that I do?"
"If Thou but wilt, Lord, Thou canst make me clean."
Thus shall I answer swift.
And He will touch me, as He walks serene;
And I shall rise and lift
This couch, so long my prison-house of pain,
And be made whole again.
He lingers yet. But lo! a hush, a hum.
The multitudes press on
After some leader. Surely He is come!
He nears me; He is gone!
Only His shadow reached me, as He went;
Yet here I rest content.
In that dear shadow, like some healing spell,
A heavenly patience lay;
Its balm of peace enwrapped me as it fell;
My pains all fled away,—
The weariness, the deep unrest of soul;
I am indeed "made whole."
It is enough, Lord, though Thy face divine
Was turned to other men.
Although no touch, no questioning voice was mine,
Thou wilt come once again;
And, if Thy shadow brings such bliss to me,
What must Thy presence be?