Physician of my sin-sick soul

by John Newton

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?