Backward with hum­ble shame we look
On our orig­in­al;
How is our na­ture dashed and broke
In our first fa­ther’s fall!

To all that’s good averse and blind,
But prone to all that’s ill;
What dread­ful dark­ness veils our mind!
How ob­sti­nate our will!

Conceived in sin, O wretch­ed state!
Before we draw our breath;
The first young pulse be­gins to beat
Iniquity and death.

How strong in our de­ge­ne­rate blood
The old cor­rupt­ion reigns,
And, ming­ling with the crook­ed flood,
Wanders through all our veins.

Wild and un­whole­some as the root
Will all the branch­es be;
How can we hope for liv­ing fruit
From such a dead­ly tree?

What mor­tal pow­er from things un­clean
Can pure pro­duct­ions bring?
Who can com­mand a vi­tal stream
From an in­fect­ed spring?

Yet, migh­ty God! Thy won­drous love
Can make our na­ture clean,
While Christ and grace pre­vail above
The tempt­er, death and sin.

The se­cond Ad­am shall re­store
The ru­ins of the first;
Hosannah to that so­ver­eign pow­er
That new-cre­ates our dust!