to have
approached Him with a flicker of long-absent hope in his heart. No doubt
he had heard of some of the earlier miracles; and no doubt the crowd
recoiled from him so that he could easily reach Jesus. When he got there
he worshipped, or, as Luke puts it, 'fell on his face,' and made his
appeal. It would be all the more piteous, because it was spoken in that
feeble, hoarse voice characteristic of leprosy, and it was in itself
most pathetic. The poor creature has won his way to a surprising
confidence, dashed with a yet more surprising diffidence and doubt. He
is sure of the power, but not of the willingness, of this wonderful
healer. 'Thou canst,' does not make him confident, because it is
weakened by 'If Thou wilt.' Faith, desire, humility, and submissiveness
are beautifully smelted together in the wistful words, which are all the
more prevalent a prayer, because they do not venture to take the form of
prayer. To tell Jesus that His will was all that was needed to heal him
was, as it were, to throw the responsibility for this continued misery
on Him who could so easily deliver, if He only willed to do it. But the
hope which gleamed before his poor eyes was only a gleam, obscured by
his ignorance of Jesus' disposition towards him. The lowly acquiescence,
with which he leaves Jesus to decide whether he is to be freed from his
horrible, living death, is very beautiful, and speaks of a patient,
disciplined spirit, as well as of a profound insight into our Lord's
authority. The leper does cling to the hope that Jesus does will to heal
him, but he will not rebel if he is left shut up in his prison-house.
Surely in such a blending of trust, yearning, and acceptance of that
Will, whatever it involved, there was the germ of discipleship. Surely
there was, at least, the beginning of a living union with Jesus, which
would heal more than the leprosy of the flesh.

Mark gives the precious addition to the narrative, of a glimpse into the
heart of Jesus, when he tells us that, 'moved with compassion,' He 'put
forth His hand and touched him.' Swift and, we may almost say,
instinctive was the outgoing of pity from the heart, which was so
pitiful because it was so pure, and laid on itself every man's sorrow
because it carried no burden of its own sin or self-regard. That touch
had deep meaning, but it was not done for the sake of a meaning. It was
the spontaneous expression of love, and revealed the delicate quickness
of perception o