This malady bed is but a grave
All I can say just an epitaph variation
My hands and my feet, oddly shackled
These feeble sinews, my chains of iron
My chained wrists remain the stiller
The looser their bonds have become
On this bed of sickness I am the ghost of my own
Frightening those who see me at my worst
Consider me dead as I lie here still
Practising for the time I'll be lying in my grave
Lord, is this how you hang a man
In front of his own door
As you nail him down
In the bottom of his bed?
No one remembers you when he's dead
Who praises you from his grave?
No one hears me singing your praise
On this bed of disease, this door of my grave
- Gravebed, gravebed
State, even lower than this malady bed
I might be lowered deep under ground
If my body shall fall into grave
You shall lift up my soul, washed out
Over and over and over again
In your tears, in your sweat, in your blood
"Do you want to get well?" (John 5:6)
"Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am faint;
O Lord, heal me, for my bones are in agony.' (Psalm 6:2)
"By his wounds we are healed." (Isaiah 53:5)
