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
Meter: L. M.
Language: English
Publication Date: 1799
Scripture:
Topic: Christ: The good pysician
Tune Information
(No tune information)



Media
More media are available on the text authority page.

Suggestions or corrections? Contact us
It looks like you are using an ad-blocker. Ad revenue helps keep us running. Please consider white-listing Hymnary.org or getting Hymnary Pro to eliminate ads entirely and help support Hymnary.org.