If I have sin upon my hand,
Against a dearest friend,
Then bury me into the sand,
From dust, beginning, end.
God is a tempest, looking down
While drawing on his bow.
His sword is sharp, when trumpts will sound
The sinners, then, will know.
My vindication was a dance
I should have sat it out.
With clumsy feet, I took a chance
My partners tell me out
If He, of wrath, would be a shield
A spirit could find health.
My aching pains could then be healed
Protect me from myself
the fragrance writer 