Here at Bethesda’s Pool

Here at Be­thes­da’s pool

the poor

The wi­thered

halt

and blind;

With wait­ing hearts ex­pect a cure

And free ad­mit­tance find.

Here streams of won­drous vir­tue flow

To heal a sin-sick soul;

To wash the fil­thy white as snow

And make the wound­ed whole.

The dumb break forth in songs of praise

The blind their sight re­ceive;

The crip­ple runs in wis­dom’s ways

The dead re­vive

and live!

Restrained to no one case

or time

These wa­ters al­ways move;

Sinners

in ev­ery age and clime

Their vi­tal in­flu­ence prove.

Yet num­bers dai­ly near them lie

Who meet with no re­lief;

With life in view they pine and die

In hope­less un­be­lief.

’Tis strange they should re­fuse to bathe

And yet fre­quent the pool;

But none can ev­en wish for faith

While love of sin bears rule.

Satan their con­sci­enc­es has sealed

And stu­pe­fied their thought;

For were they will­ing to be healed

The cure would soon be wrought.

Do Thou

dear Sav­ior

in­ter­pose

Their stub­born wills con­strain;

Or else to them the wa­ter flows

And grace is preached in vain.