Poem February 18, 1939 Issue

He Healed Them All

HELEN M. HEALY

Of all the pictures on the sacred page,
Painted in words whose colors never pall,
Replete with love to youth and hoary age,
To me the sweetest is, he healed them all.

At even when the sun was set, and day
Passed with its heat to shadows soft and cool,
The Master walked apart, alone, to pray,
And sat to rest beside a limpid pool.

They sought him out—the halt, the lame, the blind,
The mother with her babe against her breast,
The sinful outcasts, spurned by their own kind,
Strong men and weak, by pain and fear oppressed.

He spake to them, with love his face aflame,
And hope lit up the hearts filled with despair.
For faith and truth, as practiced in Christ's name,
Can heal all those who, needy, seek him there.

Only four words, but what a picture comes
Into the thought! Lo, hear the Master's call:
Go and do likewise; raise the dead to life.
This our example, that he healed them all.

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