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?