English poem
A Sick Soul
by John Newton (1725–1807)
Physician of my sin-sick soul, To thee I bring my case; My raging malady control, And heal me by thy grace.
Pity the anguish I endure, See how I mourn and pine; For never can I hope a cure From any hand but thine.
I would disclose my whole complaint, But where shall I begin? No words of mine can fully paint That worst distemper, sin.
It lies not in a single part, But through my frame is spread; A burning fever in my heart, A palsy in my head.
It makes me deaf and dumb and blind, And impotent and lame; It overclouds and fills my mind With folly, fear, and shame.
A thousand evil thoughts intrude Tumultuous in my breast; Which indispose me for my food, And rob me of my rest.
Lord, I am sick, regard my cry, And set my spirit free: Say, canst thou let a sinner die, Who longs to live to thee?