How lost was my con­di­tion,
Till Je­sus made me whole!
There is but one phy­si­cian
Can cure a sin-sick soul!
Next door to death He found me,
And snatched me from the grave;
To tell to all around me,
His won­drous pow­er to save.

The worst of all dis­eas­es
Is light, com­pared with sin;
On ev­ery part it seiz­es,
But rag­es most with­in:
’Tis pal­sy, plague, and fe­ver,
And mad­ness—all com­bined;
And none but a be­liev­er,
The least re­lief can find.

From men great skill pro­fess­ing,
I thought a cure to gain;
But this proved more dis­tress­ing,
And add­ed to my pain:
Some said that no­thing ailed me,
Some gave me up for lost;
Thus ev­ery re­fuge failed me,
And all my hopes were crossed.

At length this great Phy­si­cian,
How match­less is His grace!
Accepted my pe­ti­tion,
And un­der­took my case;
First gave me sight to view Him,
For sin my eyes had sealed;
Then bid me look un­to Him;
I looked, and I was healed.

A dy­ing, ris­en Je­sus,
Seen by the eye of faith,
From ev­ery dan­ger frees us,
And saves the soul from death:
Come then to this Phy­si­cian,
His help He’ll free­ly give;
He makes no hard con­di­tion,
’Tis only—look, and live.