Physician of my sin-sick soul

A sick soul by John Newton


 * Physician of my sin-sick soul,
 * To thee I bring my case;
 * My raging malady control,
 * And heal me by thy grace.


 * Pity the anguish I endure,
 * See how I mourn and pine;
 * For never can I hope a cure
 * From any hand but thine.


 * I would disclose my whole complaint,
 * But where shall I begin?
 * No words of mine can fully paint
 * That worst distemper, sin.


 * It lies not in a single part,
 * But through my frame is spread;
 * A burning fever in my heart,
 * A palsy in my head.


 * It makes me deaf, and dumb, and blind,
 * And impotent and lame;
 * And overclouds, and fills my mind,
 * With folly, fear, and shame.


 * A thousand evil thoughts intrude
 * Tumultuous in my breast;
 * Which indispose me for my food,
 * And rob me of my rest.


 * Lord I am sick, regard my cry,
 * And set my spirit free;
 * Say, canst thou let a sinner die,
 * Who longs to live to thee?