Deep Are the Wounds That Sin Has Made

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.