8,8,8,8

Why should our garments, made to hide

Our parents' shame, provoke our pride?

The art of dress did ne'er begin

Till Eve our mother learnt to sin.

When first she put the covering on,

Her robe of innocence was gone;

And yet her children vainly boast

In the sad marks of glory lost.

How proud we are! how fond to shew

Our clothes, and call them rich and new,

When the poor sheep and silkworms wore

That very clothing long before!

The tulip and the butterfly

Appear in gayer coats than I:

Let me be dress'd fine as I will,

Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still.

Then will I set my heart to find

Inward adornings of the mind:

Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace,

These are the robes of richest dress.

No more shall worms with me compare,

This is the raiment angels wear:

The Son of God, when here below,

Put on this blest apparel too.

It never fades, it ne'er grows old,

Nor fears the rain, nor moth, nor mould:

It takes no spot, but still refines;

The more tis worn, the more it shines.

In this on earth would I appear,

Then go to heaven, and wear it there:

God will approve it in his sight;

'Tis his own work, and his delight.