For joy we’re form’d from the dust
where ev’rything is made ready for us;
we liv’d in a gard’n of plentiness
until tempt’d to disobey in plentiness.
Now the paradise is lost,
for we sinn’d and are now sinning against our Mak’r.
We sin to refuse to ask for His pardon;
we suff’r ev’ry day by day
for the contract’d and committ’d sins against our Mak’r;
but we lay our faults on oth’rs,
blaming ‘em for not helping us out.
What must be done now, right now?
Let’s be comfort’d once again,
putting our sins aside,
putting our spirit to work;
let’s mightily put our talents
for something more profitable than sins,
that we must again be comfort’d.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem