The rod can lift it’s twining head
To maim or sting my arm,
But if it stings my body dead
I’ll know I’m out of harm,
For death is friendly to the man
Who lets his own rod be
The savior of the cross who can
Compel eternity.
I’d rather have the worm to feed
Upon my flesh and skin,
Than sit here wasting, while I bleed,
My aptitude for sin.