“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.