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?" "Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am faint; O Lord, heal me, for my bones are in agony.' "By his wounds we are healed."