Oh, when shall sick­ness and dis­ease
Their per­se­cut­ing war­fare cease;
And weak­ness die, and grief and pain,
And death it­self at last be slain?

Doubt not that bet­ter day is near,
The suf­fer­ing sons of earth to hear;
Disease and pain are born of sin.
Their re­me­dy is found with­in.

Let Christ, des­cend­ing from above,
Become in­car­nate in Thy love.
The in­ward ills and wrong sub­due,
And make Thy fall­en na­ture new.

Let the great Heal­er make Thee free
From sin’s cor­rod­ing ma­la­dy;
And then the life that’s in the soul
Shall make the suf­fer­ing bo­dy whole.