Sin, Like a Venomous Disease

Sin

like a ve­nom­ous dis­ease

Infects our vi­tal blood;

The on­ly balm is sov­er­eign grace

And the phy­si­cian

God.

Our beau­ty and our strength are fled

And we draw near to death;

But Christ the Lord re­calls the dead

With His al­migh­ty breath.

Madness by na­ture reigns with­in

The pas­sions burn and rage

Till God’s own Son

with skill di­vine

The in­ward fire as­suage.

We lick the dust

we grasp the wind

And so­lid good des­pise;

Such is the fol­ly of the mind

Till Je­sus makes us wise.

We give our souls the wounds they feel

We drink the poi­son­ous gall

And rush with fu­ry down to hell;

But Heav’n pre­vents the fall.

The man pos­sessed among the tombs

Cuts his own flesh

and cries;

He foams and raves

till Je­sus comes

And the foul spir­it flies.