As by Bethesda, weak, afflicted sore,
I lie, so wearily, day after day,
My hope seems centered in some troubled pool,
But no one comes to help me on my way.
Unmindfully, I see not present good—
Self-pitying, absorbed in mine own pain;
Forgetting to give thanks for what I have;
Forgetting to rejoice in others' gain.
But where despair seems deepest, good is there.
With love unselfed and tender one draws near,
Lifting my thought above the changeful pool
To see God's angels suddenly appear.
Not in material form, but in a new,
A quickening sense of ever-present good,
A light that to my blinded sight reveals
The truth of God, His allness understood.
I feel my earthborn shackles fall away—
Forgotten all the weakness, pain, and care.
With gratitude I lift my eyes, and lo,
The healing Christ is here—and everywhere!
