What is this thing that holds us captive,
a slave to sin here ever after.
A struggle wrought with perils abounding,
deeper debt our soles are mounting.
It seems as though no place to hide,
foul tempest sin which wars inside.
Calamity taunts at every turn,
an alluding peace our heart dost yearn.
What I would, I’m lost to do,
the stain of sin, a darkened hew.
What is this dreadful pulling down,
but sin itself, a screaming sound.
A choking, gasping, grab for air, the weight of sin, so much despair.
Who is such man, whom spirals down,
the man not covered, by His Crimson Gown!