She didn’t have time

For a phone call

And there were no prophets around

And no mighty word

To purchase, absurd

And no studio

Holy ground.

So lonely and left out

By suffering

The bleeding just never

Would stop

Physicians had tried

Her family had cried

With HMO costs

O’er the top.

But now there was noise

Of a new sort

As folks all had

Flocked to a Man

Whose face was serene

Like none she had seen

Who spoke of a

Merciful plan.

Twas Jesus

And stories remembered

Of how He left

No pain in place.

Twas Jesus

Yes strolling right by her

She reached out

To end her disgrace.

He stopped

In the din of the jostling

“Who touched me?”

His only request

And she looked up healed

Her faith thus revealed

One desperate cry

Passed the test.

How simple this joy

Touching Jesus

How manly

And ready His aid

With no priest between

A sorry state seen

And matchless compassion



Luke 8

(Note: Oh how I desire to see this kind of attachment manifested in believers! Although I cannot get inside zealous hearts, I do suspect that there is too much running to middle-men and middle-women; to measures and means of grace. The “touch” is a personal milestone so powerful as to birth love slaves of the King. Holiness is not duty. It is thankful love.)



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