1 Heal us, Immanuel, here we are,
Waiting to feel thy touch;
Deep-wounded souls to thee repair,
And, Saviour, we are such.

2 Our faith is feeble, we confess;
We faintly trust thy word;
But wilt thou pity us the less?
Be that far from thee, Lord.

3 Remember him who once applied,
With trembling for relief;
“Lord, I believe,” with tears he cried,
“O help my unbelief.”

4 She, too, who touched thee in the press,
And healing virtue stole,
Was answered, “Daughter, go in peace;
Thy faith hath made thee whole.”

5 Like her, with hopes and fears we come,
To touch thee, if we may;
O send us not despairing home;
Send none unhealed away.