Wilt Thou Be Made Whole?
Beside the gate of the holy city,
Where temple spires in sunlight gleamed,
There lay a pool in shadow hidden,
Where once an angel’s presence teemed.
Its waters stirred, its surface broken,
A fleeting sign of Heaven’s grace,
And round its edge the stricken gathered,
Each longing for the healing place.
The blind, the halt, the pale, the withered,
A multitude of hope and woe,
Waited, watched, and wept in silence,
Bound by pain they could not throw.
But there among the host forgotten,
Upon a bed of dust and stone,
A man lay still—his years twice nineteen,
His strength, his very will, o’erthrown.
Then came a Stranger, bright with mercy,
A voice like waters soft and deep,
He stood, He saw, He spake with kindness,
That made the hearts of angels weep.
“Rise up,” He called, “and walk, O sleeper!
No more in sorrow shalt thou stay!”
And lo, the man, with strength unbidden,
Cast his weary bed away.
No hymn of praise, no cry of wonder,
Escaped his lips, ungrateful, cold;
He turned, he went, his heart unshaken,
Still bound in unbelief of old.
Thus Israel, healed yet ever straying,
Received the gift but knew not Him—
The Light that shone in midnight’s darkness,
The King whose kingdom seemed so dim.
And now to thee, O soul, I whisper,
Beside thy pool of old despair:
Wilt thou be whole? Wilt thou receive Him?
Or linger yet in doubt and care?
He calls thee still—His voice unbroken,
A cry of love, a pleading tone—
Wilt thou arise? Wilt thou awaken?
Or turn and leave Him still unknown?