Hymn L. Long Metre. Christ the Physician of the Soul

Deep are are the wounds which sin has made, Where shall the sinner find a cure? In vain alas, is Nature's aid, The work exceeds her utmost power.

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.

But can no sovereign balm be found? And is no kind physician nigh? To ease the pain, and heal the wound, Ere life and hope forever fly?

Yes, there's a great physician near, Look up my fainting soul and live! See, in his heavenly smiles appear, Such help as nature cannot give!

See, in the Saviour's dying blood, Life, health and bliss abundant slow! 'Tis only that dear, sacred flood, Can ease thy pain and heal thy woe.

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