1 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.
2 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.
3 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.
English poetess, Edith Gilling Cherry was stricken with polio in infancy, and for the rest of her brief life she walked with the aid of crutches. (Miss Cherry died at the age of 25.) Most of her poems were written before she was 15 years old. She was a deeply spiritual young woman, ever conscious of her spiritual failings.
Edith Cherry gave the glory to God for her rich and insightful poetry. When she lay dying, after suffering a stroke, she said, “It all seems so small, all I have tried to do, so small to Him.” Her mother answered, “There are your songs, dear, they will carry on your work.” But Edith quickly replied, “Ah, but they were not mine at all, they were just given to me all ready, and all I had to do was write them do… Go to person page >