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. |
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