How kind the good Sa­ma­ri­tan
To him who fell among the thieves!
Thus Je­sus pi­ties fall­en men,
And heals the wounds the soul re­ceives.

Oh! I re­mem­ber well the day,
When sore­ly wound­ed, near­ly slain,
Like that poor man I bleed­ing lay,
And groaned for help, but groaned in vain.

Men saw me in this help­less case,
And passed with­out com­pas­sion by;
Each neigh­bor turned away his face,
Unmoved by my mourn­ful cry.

But He whose name had been my scorn
(As Jews Sa­ma­ri­tans des­pise)
Came when He saw me thus for­lorn,
With love and pi­ty in His eyes.

Gently He raised me from the ground,
Pressed me to lean up­on His arm;
And in­to ev­ery gaping wound,
He poured His own all-heal­ing balm.

Unto His church my steps He led,
The house pre­pared for sin­ners lost;
Gave charge I should be clothed and fed,
And took up­on Him all the cost.

Thus saved from death, from want se­cured,
I wait till He again shall come,
When I shall be com­plete­ly cured,
And take me to His hea­ven­ly home.

There through eter­nal bound­less days
When na­ture’s wheel no long­er rolls;
How shall I love, adore, and praise,
This good Sa­ma­ri­tan to souls!