  O OUR little one was sick, and the sickness pressed her sore. We sat beside her bed, and we felt her hands and head, And in our hearts we prayed this one prayer o’er and o’er: “Come to us, Christ the Lord; utter thine old-time word, ‘Talitha cumi!’” And as the night wore on, and the fever flamed more high, And a new look burned and grew in the eyes of tender blue, Still louder in our hearts uprose the voiceless cry, “O Lord of love and might, say once again to-night, ‘Talitha cumi!’” And then, and then—he came; we saw him not, but felt. And he bent above the child, and she ceased to moan, and smiled; And although we heard no sound, as around the bed we knelt, Our souls were made aware of a mandate in the air, “Talitha cumi!” And as at dawn’s fair summons faded the morning star, Holding the Lord’s hand close, the child we loved arose, And with him took her way to a country far away; And we would not call her dead, for it was his voice that said, “Talitha cumi!” |
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