Deep Are the Wounds Which Sin Has Made
Anne Steele, 1716-1778
Deep are the wounds which sin has made;
Where shall the sinner find a cure?
In vain, alas! is human aid;
The work exceeds all human power.
Sin, like a raging fever, reigns,
With fatal strength in every part;
The dire contagion fills the veins,
And spreads the 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,
E’re life and hope forever fly?
There is a great Physician near;
Look up, O fainting soul, and live.
See, in His heavenly smiles appear
Such ease as nature cannot give.
See, in the Savior's precious blood,
Life, health, and bliss abundant flow!
'Tis only this dear sacred flood
Can ease thy pain and heal thy woe.
