Sin! wilt thou vanquish me?

And shall I yield the victory?

Shall all my joys be spoil'd,

And pleasures soil'd

By thee?

Shall I remain

As one that's slain

And never more lift up the head?

Is not my Saviour dead?

His blood, thy bane, my balsam, bliss, joy, wine,

Shall thee destroy; heal, feed, make me divine.