The Master’s Touch (Cherry)

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 Well done!

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.