Weary, and sick, and fainting,

Feeble, and pale, and wan,

Far over the hills of Gadara

She wearily tottered on.

She had heard of the great Physician

On the shores of Galilee —

How He healed the sick and suffering,

And made the blind to see.

And she said, “I will seek the Master;

Perchance He will hear my cry;

I will seek this Jesus of Nazareth;

I have heard that He passeth by.”

Then slow, where the blue waves murmur

Their sad and ceaseless song,

Along the cliffs of Galilee

There wended a mighty throng.

But ah, she is sick and fainting,

And her step is slow and weak,

And the bright tears spring to her eager eyes

And drop to her pallid cheek!

She yearns for a look from the Master,

For a touch of His healing hand;

But the multitude surge about Him

And throng o’er the wave-girt strand.

“I will touch the hem of His garment,”

She murmured in accents sweet;

And she slowly creeps through the eager throng

And falls at the Master’s feet.

And the Healer turns about Him

And cries to the trembling soul,

“Thou art loosed from thine infirmity;

Thy faith had made thee whole.”