O Thou through suf­fer­ing per­fect made,
On whom the bit­ter cross was laid;
In hours of sick­ness, grief and pain,
No suf­fer­er turns to Thee in vain.

The halt, the maimed, the sick, the blind,
Sought not in vain Thy tendance kind,
Now in Thy poor Thy­self we see,
And min­is­ter through them to Thee.

O lov­ing Sav­ior, Thou canst cure
The pains and woes Thou didst en­dure;
For all who need, Phy­si­cian great,
Thy heal­ing balm we sup­pli­cate.

But, O far more, let each keen pain
And hour of woe be hea­ven­ly gain,
Each stroke of Thy chas­tis­ing rod
Bring back the wan­der­er near­er God!

O heal the bruis­èd heart with­in!
O save our souls all sick with sin!
Give life and health in boun­te­ous store,
That we may praise Thee ev­er­more!