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A soul confined by bars and bands,

Cries, help! O help! and wrings her hands,

Blinded her eyes, bleeding her breast,

Nor pardon finds, nor balm of rest.

Ceaseless she paces to and fro,

O heart-sick days! O nights of woe!

Nor hand of friend, nor loving face,

Nor favor comes, nor word of grace.

It was not I that sinn'd the sin,

The ruthless body dragg'd me in;

Though long I strove courageously,

The body was too much for me.

Dear prison'd soul bear up a space,

for soon or late the certain grace;