Another

I

Here at Bethesda’s pool, the poor,
The wither’d, halt, and blind,
With waiting hearts expect a cure,
And free admittance find.

II

Here streams of wondrous virtue flow,
To heal the sin-sick soul⁠—
To wash the filthy white as snow,
And make the wounded whole.

III

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.

IV

Restrain’d to no one case or time,
These waters always move;
Sinners in every age and clime
Their vital influence prove.

V

Yet numbers daily near them lie,
Who meet with no relief;
With life in view they pine and die
In hopeless unbelief.

VI

’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.

VII

Satan their consciences has seal’d
And stupifies their thought;
For were they willing to be heal’d,
The cure would soon be wrought.

VIII

Do thou, dear Saviour, interpose,
Their stubborn wills constrain;
Or else to them the water flows
And grace is preached in vain.