Lyrics
The lyrics below are preserved exactly as documented in nineteenth-century primary sources. Dialect, spelling, and phrasing reflect the living tradition of the communities who created and sang these songs. Standardizing the language would erase the historical record. See our editorial standards for more.
There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole,
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sin-sick soul.
Sometimes I feel discouraged,
And think my work's in vain,
But then the Holy Spirit
Revives my soul again.
There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole,
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sin-sick soul.
If you cannot preach like Peter,
If you cannot pray like Paul,
You can tell the love of Jesus,
And say, "He died for all."
There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole,
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sin-sick soul.
Variant verse, documented in later Southern hymnody and folk-song collections
Don't ever feel discouraged,
For Jesus is your friend,
And if you lack for knowledge,
He'll ne'er refuse to lend.
There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole,
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sin-sick soul.
Historical Context
"There Is a Balm in Gilead" belongs to the oldest layer of the spiritual tradition, its language rooted in camp-meeting hymnody that circulated across the South in the early nineteenth century. The refrain's core image — "there is a balm in Gilead" — descends from a devotional lineage stretching back to the English hymn writer John Newton, whose 1779 Olney Hymns included "The Good Physician," rhyming "whole" with "sin-sick soul." That language was reworked by hymn writer Washington Glass in his 1854 revival hymn "The Sinner's Cure," published in The Revivalist, and similar wandering verses can be traced still earlier, to Richard Allen's 1801 A Collection of Hymns and Spiritual Songs, one of the first hymnals compiled by and for a Black congregation in the United States.
But the spiritual as it is known today — with its distinctive refrain, its verses about discouragement and revival, and its exhortation that one "cannot preach like Peter" or "pray like Paul" — took shape among enslaved communities in the Upper South and border states, who transformed borrowed hymn language into something new through the practices of the ring shout, call-and-response, and oral improvisation. As with most spirituals, no single author or date of composition can be identified; the song passed from voice to voice for decades before it was ever written down.
The first known print appearance of the spiritual in its recognizable form came in Folk Songs of the American Negro, No. 1 (Nashville: Fisk University, 1907), edited by Frederick J. Work, a member of the Fisk University faculty and brother of the folklorist and choral director John Wesley Work II. Two years later, on December 9, 1909, the Fisk University Jubilee Quartet — with John Wesley Work himself among the vocalists — recorded the song for the Victor Talking Machine Company (Victor 16487), one of the earliest commercial recordings of a Negro spiritual and a landmark in bringing the song to national audiences. John Wesley Work later included the spiritual in his own influential study, Folk Song of the American Negro (1915).
Cultural Significance
The spiritual takes its central image from the Book of Jeremiah, where the prophet, grieving over the suffering of his people, cries out: "Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? Why then is not the health of the daughter of my people recovered?" (Jeremiah 8:22). In the Hebrew Bible, the question is left open — an unanswered lament over a wound that will not heal. The genius of the spiritual lies in what its enslaved creators did with that lament: they answered it. Where Jeremiah asks a question, the spiritual delivers a declaration — "There is a balm in Gilead." The despair of the biblical text becomes, in the mouths of the enslaved, an act of defiant faith.
That transformation carried enormous weight for people living under conditions designed to convince them that no healing, no relief, and no justice would ever come. The "sin-sick soul" of the refrain speaks in the language of personal salvation, but for a community denied control over its own body, family, and labor, the promise of wholeness — of a wound made whole — resonated on registers far beyond the individually devotional. Scholars of the spiritual tradition have long noted that where hymns of white camp-meeting revivalism used this language to address personal sin, the enslaved community's use of the same words also addressed a deeper, collective injury: the wound of enslavement itself.
The song's verses about vocation — "if you cannot preach like Peter, if you cannot pray like Paul, you can tell the love of Jesus" — carry their own significance. They democratize spiritual authority, insisting that eloquence and formal learning (both largely denied to enslaved people by law) are not prerequisites for ministry or testimony. Anyone, the song insists, can bear witness. This egalitarian theology of testimony became a foundation of the Black church tradition that followed emancipation.
Scholarly Notes
Musicologists and hymnologists, including researchers at the Hymnology Archive, have traced the song's textual genealogy through multiple decades of camp-meeting and revival hymnody before it crystallized into the spiritual sung and recorded at Fisk. This layered textual history — hymn verses borrowed, reworked, recombined, and set against a wholly new melodic and rhythmic sensibility — is characteristic of the broader spiritual tradition, in which formal Protestant hymnody and West African-descended musical practice met and transformed one another.
The Fisk University Jubilee Quartet's 1909 Victor recording is historically significant not only as an early recording of a spiritual, but as one of the first instances of a professional African American vocal ensemble recording religious folk material for a mass commercial audience — work that helped establish the spiritual as a recognized American musical form beyond the church and the concert hall.
In the twentieth century, the song was carried forward by concert and gospel artists including Paul Robeson, whose 1945 recording brought the song's grave, low registers to bear on its themes of suffering and healing; Mahalia Jackson, whose gospel interpretations became touchstones of the genre; and later Nina Simone (1978) and Jessye Norman (1979), each of whom found in the song's spare, repeating structure room for radically different interpretive approaches — from hushed devotion to searing lament.
The title phrase has also traveled well beyond the song itself, entering broader American vernacular and literary usage — including as the title of Lanford Wilson's 1965 play Balm in Gilead — a testament to how thoroughly the spiritual's central image embedded itself in American culture.