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 God’s 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 Heav’n 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.