Christ the Physician of Souls

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.

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

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 hope forever fly?

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!

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.

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