Sin, like a venomous disease,
Infects our vital blood;
The only balm is sovereign grace,
And the physician, God.
Our beauty and our strength are fled,
And we draw near to death;
But Christ the Lord recalls the dead
With His almighty breath.
Madness by nature reigns within,
The passions burn and rage,
Till Godís own Son, with skill divine,
The inward fire assuage.
We lick the dust, we grasp the wind,
And solid good despise;
Such is the folly of the mind,
Till Jesus makes us wise.
We give our souls the wounds they feel,
We drink the poisonous gall,
And rush with fury down to hell;
But Heavín prevents the fall.
The man possessed among the tombs
Cuts his own flesh, and cries;
He foams and raves, till Jesus comes,
And the foul spirit flies.