The world is sick, and yet not unto death;
There is for it a day of health in store.
From lips of love there comes the healing breath,—
The breath of him who all its sickness bore,
And bids it rise to strength and beauty evermore.
Evil still reigns; and deep within we feel
The fever and the palsy and the pain
Of life's perpetual heartaches, that reveal
The rooted poison, which, from heart and brain,
We labor to extract, but labor all in vain.
Our skill avails not; ages come and go,
Yet bring with them no respite and no cure;
The hidden wound, the sigh of pent-up woe,
The sting we smother but must still endure,
The worthless anodynes which no relief procure.
All these cry out for something more divine,
Which the worst woes of earth may not withstand;
Medicine that cannot fail—the oil and wine,
The balm and myrrh, growth of no earthly land,
And the all-skillful touch of the great Healer's hand.
Man needs a prophet; heavenly Prophet, speak,
And teach him what he is too proud to hear.
Man needs a priest; true Priest, thy silence break,
And speak the words of pardon in his ear.
Man needs a king; O King of kings, at length in love
appear!
—Horatius Bonar.