He has come to an hospital, a city of the plague, a world where all are sick and dying; both in soul and body. Heavenly skill is his; nay, divine. Medicine is his; love to the sick is in his heart, and the balm of Gilead in his hand. He healed “all manner of sickness, and all manner of disease among the people.” He did so in fulfilment of his divine errand. He did so to manifest his divine fulness and skill. He did so to shew his power and willingness to heal worse diseases. He did so to attract and invite the spiritually sick,—the blind, the deaf, the lame, the leprous, the palsied,—all that are sick, whatever the nature of their disease. He is the great healer still! And we come to Him for health. He is the tree of life, both in leaf and fruit. He beckons us to his shade and healing. Wilt thou be made whole? is his question to each. He wants to be made use of by us. He entreats as a favour that we employ Him as our physician, and that we apply for his medicines. We need not specify them,—indeed, we cannot,—He knows what they are, as He knows what our sickness is. There is not one sick soul here that He is unwilling to heal. Oh, apply;—apply at once!
Horatius Bonar, Gospels