I will reach out my hand as He comes passing by,
Although to touch the Lord will mean that I will die.
The crowds have come to welcome God into His seat,
They've made a box where He's contained all nice and neat.
We've fashioned Him into the God that we would like,
And that's the God we're welcoming with great delight.
While others sing their praises at His coming here,
I bow before His face in trembling and fear.
I know that I am weak and full of inborn sin.
I know that He is higher than all mortal men.
The rift between a mortal and the Lord divine,
Condemns the man who even tries to cross that line.
Mortality and sin infuse my every breath,
To see -- or worse -- to touch the Lord is instant death.
And yet I know that I am desperately unclean,
And only Jesus can renew my sanctity.
The only way I'll heal is if I'm touching Him.
His holy touch alone will wipe away my sin.
Apart from Him I'll die -- or touching Him I'll die!
So I reached out my hand as He came passing by.
And when I touched Him, all at once I am made whole.
He's pardoned all my sins and purified my soul.
I'm healed of all the uncleanness which has filled my life,
I am restored and only through the blood of Christ.
"Who touched me?" He has stopped and turns around His head.
I fall before His feet, my heart consumed with dread.
This moment of my freedom had, now I must die,
The price of my presumption on the Lord divine.
His eyes are soft -- will He not damn me now to hell?
He touches me! "My child, your faith has made you well."
Sermon Poems 