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Poem by John Newton
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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 all around me His wond'rous pow'r to save. The worst of all diseases Is light compared with sin; On ev'ry 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 sought 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 ev'ry 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 bit me look unto Him; I looked, and I was healed. A dying, risen Jesus, Seen by the eye of faith, At once from 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- To Jesus look and live!
John Newton's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org