5 My God, I hate to walk or dwell

With sinful children here: Then let me not be sent to hell,

Where none but sinners are.

1 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. 2 When first she put the cov’ring on,

Her robe of innocence was gone;
And yet her children vainly boast

In the sad marks of glory lost.
3 How proud we are! how fond to show

Our clothes, and call them rich and new! When the poor sheep and silk-worm wore That very clothing long before.

4 The tulip and the butterfly

Appear in gayer coats than I;
Let me be drest fine as I will,

Flies, worms, and flow'rs exceed me still. 5 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. 6 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.
7 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. 8 In this on earth would I appear,

Then go to heav'n and wear it there:
God will approve it in his sight;
'Tis his own work, and his delight.

D3

1 LET children that would fear the Lord,

Hear what their teachers say; With rev'rence meet their parents' word,

And with delight obey. 2 Have you not heard what dreadful plagues

Are threaten'd by the Lord,
To him that breaks his father's law,

Or mocks his mother's word?
3 What heavy guilt upon him lies!

How cursed is his name!
The ravens shall pick out his eyes,

And eagles eat the same.
4 But those that worship God, and give

Their parents honour due,
Here on this earth they long shall live,

And live hereafter too.

1 Why should I love my sports so well,

So constant at my play,
And lose the thoughts of heav'n and hell,

And then forget to pray?
2 What do I read my bible for,

But, Lord, to learn thy will?
And shall I daily know thee more,

And less obey thee still?
3 How senseless is my heart, and wild!

How vain are all my thoughts!
Pity the weakness of a child,

And pardon all my faults.
4 Make me thy heav'nly voice to hear,

And let me love to pray;
Since God will lend a gracious ear

To what a child can say.

1 My God, who makes the sun to know

His proper hour to rise,
And, to give light to all below,

Doth send him round the skies. 2 When from the chambers of the east

His morning race begins,
He never tires, nor stops to rest,

But round the world he shines. 3 So, like the sun, would I fulfil

The business of the day;
Begin my work betimes and still

March on my heav'nly way.
4 Give me, O Lord, thy early grace,

Nor let my soul complain That the young morning of my days

Has all been spent in vain.