Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound. - Isaac Watts

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 learn'd 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.

Yet, gracious God amidst these storms of nature,
Thine eyes behold a sweet and sacred calm
Reign through the realms of conscience: all within
Lies peaceful and composed. ‘Tis wondrous grace
Keeps off thy terrors from this humble bosom,
Though stained with sins and follies, yet serene
In penitential peace and cheerful hope;
Sprinkled and guarded with atoning blood.
Thy vital smiles amidst this devastation,
Like heavenly sunbeams hid behind the clouds,
Break out in happy moments with bright radiance,
Cleaving the gloom; the fair celestial light
Softens and gilds the horrors of the storm,
And richest cordials to the heart conveys.
O glorious solace of immense distress,
A conscience and a God! A friend at home
And a better Friend on high! This is my Rock
Of firm support, my Shield of sure defence
Against infernal arrows. Rise, my soul,
Put on thy courage: Here’s the living spring
Of joys divinely sweet and ever new,
‘A peaceful conscience and a smiling heaven.’
Weak as my zeal is, yet my zeal is true;
It bears the trying furnace. Love divine
Constrains me; I am thine. Incarnate love
Has seized and holds me in almighty arms:
Here’s my salvation, my eternal hope.
Amidst the wreck of worlds and dying nature,
‘I am the Lord’s, and he forever mine.

How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower!