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.'
Doug Blair's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Jairus, Running, Hoping by Doug Blair )
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edna St. Vincent Millay
(22 February 1892 – 19 October 1950)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(c. 600 BCE)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
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