Mourn, O my soul, thy primal sin,
As memory brings the past to mind,
When, robbed of innocence, the joys
Of Paradise were left behind.

For of Thy lovingkindness great,
Thou, who didst earth and all things frame,
Mad'st from the clay Thy creature man,
With angels to adore Thy name.

And through the riches of Thy grace,
O Lord and Maker, Thou didst plant
Fair paradise where I might share
Its richest fruits nor suffer want.

Ah! woe is me, my wretched soul,
God gave its fadeless fruits to thee;
Why didst thou then His law transgress,
And eat from that forbidden tree?