Around Bethesda's healing bower,
Waiting to hear the rustling wing,
Which spoke the angel nigh, whose power
Gave virtue to that holy spring,
With patience, and with hope endued,
Were seen the gathering multitude.
Had they who watched and waited there
Been conscious of the passing thought,
With what unceasing, anxious care
Would they that quick'ning flood have sought,—
And with what fervency of Soul,—
The Power Divine, to make them whole.
Superstition is to religion what astrology is to astronomy, a very foolish daughter of a very wise mother.
