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 power.
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 sovereign balm be found?
And is no kind physician nigh
To ease the pain, and heal the wound,
Ere life and hope for ever fly?
4 There is a great physician near,
Look up, O fainting soul, and live;
See, in his heavenly 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 ease thy pain and heal thy woe.
Text Information | |
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First Line: | Deep are the wounds which sin has made |
Title: | Physician |
Author: | Steele |
Meter: | L. M. |
Language: | English |
Publication Date: | 1793 |
Scripture: | |
Topic: | Son |