Deep are the wounds that sin has made;
Where shall the sin­ner find a cure?
In vain, alas, is na­ture’s aid,
The work ex­ceeds all na­ture’s 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.

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 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 dy­ing Sav­ior’s 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 so­ver­eign cure is found,
A cor­di­al for the faint­ing heart,
A balm for eve­ry pain­ful wound.