OVERSHADOWED.

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?