“This one was born there,”
Loud this cry rings true.
But not ev’ry heir
Is fully renewed.
For deep down inside
My soul’s hidden cave
A dark spring resides
That waters my way.
And from the ground grows
Bent plants and bad fruit,
All fed by dark flow
From cavern to root.
Yet other wet beds
So brightly they run
From scars that have bled
Pure blood of the Son.
The large crimson drops
Turn dark into light,
And fetid flow stops
Stream turning so bright.
Oh, that my dark spring
To crystal would turn.
Then bent plants would bring
Fruit’s joyful return.
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