1 How sore a plague is sin,
To those by whom ’tis felt!
The Christian cries, “Unclean, unclean!”
E’en though released from guilt.

2 O wretched, wretched man!
What horrid scenes I view!
I find, alas! do all I can,
That I can nothing do.

3 When good I would perform,
Through fear or shame I stop,
Corruption rises like a storm,
And blasts the promised crop.

4 [Of peace if I’m in quest,
Or love my thoughts engage,
Envy and anger in my breast
That moment rise and rage.]

5 [When for a humble mind
To God I pour my prayer,
I look into my heart, and find
That pride will still be there.]

6 How long, dear Lord, how long
Deliverance must I seek;
And fight with foes so very strong,
Myself so very weak?

7 I’ll bear the unequal strife,
And wage the war within;
Since death, that puts an end to life,
Shall put an end to sin.