John Newton & William Cowper · 114 of 356
113. Here at Bethesda’s pool, the poor
Hymn 113
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; 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 is preached in vain.