Verse. My God, I’m wounded by my sin,
And sore without, and sick within.
Ver. Chor. I come to Thee, in hope to find
Salve for my body and my mind.
Verse. In Gilead though no balm be found
To ease this smart or cure this wound,
Ver. Chor. Yet, Lord, I know there is with Thee
All saving health, and help for me.
Verse. Then reach Thou forth that hand of Thine,
That pours in oil, as well as wine,
Ver. Chor. And let it work, for I’ll endure
The utmost smart, so Thou wilt cure.
Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.