St. Luke the Evangelist

When languid frame, or throbbing pulse,
The pride of life subdues,
And colours all its roseate bloom
With sorrow's soberer hues:

How sweet to think that he, who stands
Beside our bed of pain,
And thoughtful counts the ebbing sands
Which yet for us remain: —

Comes in the humble strength of Faith
Such comfort to afford,
As best may help the deeper work
Of his Physician Lord.

And while with skilful hand he tries
Diseases to control,
Not only sees a mortal frame,
But an immortal soul:

And prays for grace to do his part,
In all God's wondrous plan,
And sanctifies his healing art,
To the best good of man.

Puffed not with pride of human skill,
With hushed and awful breath,
He meekly comes ' to do Thy will,'
O Lord of Life, and Death:

Delay the sufferer longer here,
That he may holier be;
Or feel, how well man cannot keep
One ripened soul from Thee.

Such simple Faith, such child-like trust
His best degree will prove,
Physician in the schools below,
And in Thy school above.

O that, amid the noble band
Of those, who live to heal
The sicknesses which sin hath made,
More might be found, who feel —

That the sick room's a holy place,
And the sick man is given,
Not to be merely kept on earth,
But to be healed for Heaven.

O God! on such a day as this,
Let us with special prayer
All those, who heal throughout our land.
Commend to Thy good care.

Keep them from pestilence by night,
From sickness at noonday,
Tho' thousands by their side may fall,
Drive noisome things away.

And make them hallowed means of good,
In all they think and do,
While truthful to their healing art,
Not unto Thee less true.

Physicians of the body they —
By Grace's soft control,
May they become, like good St. Luke,
Physicians of the soul!