To him my wounded soul repairs,
He knows my pain, and hears my prayers;
From him I virtue draw by faith,
Which saves me from the jaws of death:
From him fresh life and strength I gain,
And Satan' spends his rage in vain.
No secret arts or open force,
Can rob me of this sure resource,
Though banish'd to some distant land,
My medicine would be still at hand;
Though foolish men, its worth deny,
Experience gives them all the lie;
Though Deists and Socinians join,
Jesus still lives, and still is mine.
Tis here the happy diff'rence lies,
My Saviour reigns above the skies,
Yet to my soul is always near,
For he is God, and ev'ry where.
His blood a sovereign balm is found
For ev'ry grief, and ev'ry wound;
And sooner all the hills shall flee
And hide themselves beneath the sea;
Or ocean, starting from its bed,
Rush o'er the cloud-topt mountain's head;
The sun, exhausted of its light,
Become the source of endless night;
And ruin spread from pole to pole;
Than Jesus fail the tempted soul,