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.