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(April 6,1951 / London, Ontario, Canada)

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Jairus, Running, Hoping

Our little girl was almost gone.
The fever gripped her like a vise.
The eyes attending elsewhere, wan,
The fragile hands as cold as ice.

And I as useless as a child.
Her mother stroking soft the brow.
And something hidden, wanton, wild
Was pressing, choking sweetness now.

I fled the room, a flick'ring thought
Arrested mind and sinking heart.
The Nazarene whom many sought
Could he be called, and life impart?

The doors rushed by as I made haste.
This rabbi now a racing steed.
A father with no time to waste.
Would Jesus rally to our need?

He hears my plea, yet looks so calm,
And joins me in the homeward trek.
Has he the skill? Has he the balm?
To save our lives from total wreck?

But friends advise with words I dread,
To trouble not the Master more.
My little flower, already dead.
My wife distraught upon the floor.

Yet still he comes, quite undeterred,
And takes her hand, and softly sighs
Her little spirit hears the word.
The call of life, 'Sweet maid arise.'

Submitted: Saturday, April 27, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, September 24, 2013


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