Oh you imperfect dust
lying within the hollow of this crust
know you not that dust to dust
return dust to crust
but the blood speaks
but the grace is surplus
but the mercies are on us
but the grace
we must die to be born again
every authority is subject to Him
imperfect and condemned souls
all remain summissive subjects
only to Him and all this is
but for the grace...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem