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.
|First Line:||Deep are the wounds that sin hath made|
|Title:||Christ the pysician of souls|
|Topic:||Christ: The good pysician|