These mournful words grip me tight, leave me with none of my own—
“Is there no balm in Gilead; is there no physician there?
Why then is not the health of the daughter of my people recovered?”
Maybe they’ve never gone to see Him? Maybe never applied the balm?
Now instead, they stand there and watch the saved world go by, and look at each other and sigh:
“The harvest is past.
The summer is ended.
And we are not saved.”
My God, let us not neglect so free, and so great a salvation.
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