Just a brush

Just a fleeting touch

He need not fix His gaze

Stop His eyes like fire

Upon my crumbling flesh

If I just—

If I can press—

My hand upon that One

In whom we

Live

Move

Have our Being

If I cannot kiss His feet

Grasp His arm

Hold His hand

One stroke will

Still an ocean

One touch will

Reverse death

One touch will 

Rock a stone cold heart

…As Jesus went, the people pressed around him. And there was a woman who had had a discharge of blood for twelve years, and though she had spent all her living on physicians, she could not be healed by anyone. She came up behind him and touched the fringe of his garment, and immediately her discharge of blood ceased. And Jesus said, “Who was it that touched me?” When all denied it, Peter said, “Master, the crowds surround you and are pressing in on you!” But Jesus said, “Someone touched me, for I perceive that power has gone out from me.” And when the woman saw that she was not hidden, she came trembling, and falling down before him declared in the presence of all the people why she had touched him, and how she had been immediately healed. And he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace.”

-Luke 8:42-48