CI. Christ the pysician of souls

1 Deep are the wounds which sin hath made;
Where shall the sinner find a cure?
In vain, alas, is nature's aid,
the work exceeds all nature's pow'r.

2 Sin, like a raging fever, reigns
With fatal strength in every part;
The dire contagion fills the veins,
And spreads its poison to the heart.

3 And can no sov'reign balm be found?
And is no kind physician nigh,
To ease the pain and heal the wound,
Ere life and hop forever fly?

4 There is a great physician near,
Look up. O fainting soul, and live;
See, in his heav'nly smiles appear
Such ease as nature cannot give!

5 See in the Saviour's dying blood
Life, health, and bliss abundant flow!
'Tis only this dear sacred flood
Can cleanse the heart, and heal its woe.

6 Sin throws in vain its pointed dart,
For here a sov'reign cure is found;
A cordial for a fainting heart,
A balm for every painful wound.

Text Information
First Line: Deep are the wounds that sin hath made
Title: Christ the pysician of souls
Publication Date: 1799
Meter: L. M.
Topic: Christ: The good pysician
Language: English
Tune Information
(No tune information)

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