Here at Bethesda’s pool, the poor,

The withered, halt, and blind;

With waiting hearts expect a cure,

And free admittance find.

Here streams of wondrous virtue flow

To heal a sin–sick soul;

To wash the filthy white as snow,

And make the wounded whole.

The dumb break forth in songs of praise,

The blind their fight receive;

141 The cripple runs in wisdom’s ways,

The dead revive, and live!

Restrained to no one case, or time,

These waters always move;

Sinners, in every age and clime,

Their vital influence prove.

Yet numbers daily near them lie,

Who meet with no relief;

With life in view they pine and die

In hopeless unbelief.

’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.

Satan their consciences has sealed,

And stupefied their thought;

For were they willing to be healed,

The cure would soon be wrought.

Do thou, dear Savior, interpose,

Their stubborn wills constrain;

Or else to them the water flows,

And grace is preached in vain.