“Fine feathers, fine birds,” are oft utter’d words.
Their truth, in the Peacock, behold!
When strutting about, his train he spreads out,
In richness of colours untold.
His many-hued dyes delight and surprise,
Enhanced by the beams of the sun,
So bright, too, his breast, and graceful his crest,
No wonder much praise he has won.
But though he doth shine in feathers so fine,
Discordant and harsh is his voice;
And when from his throat there issues his note,
Who listens from pleasure and choice?
Some others we know, who’re wingless, yet show
A passion for dress and display;
Though we must needs own that they are outshone
By birds, deck’d in nature’s array.
But we who, in sin, our being begin,
And have to meet God, who is Light,
Can only appear, and stand without fear,
Before Him, in raiment of white.
Search over the globe; where is there a robe,
Or garment, unsullied and fair,
That it will endure His gaze, who is pure,
And we, in His presence, can wear?
But, wash’d in the flood of Christ’s precious blood,
The soul is made perfectly clean;
And, cover’d in Christ, God’s claims all sufficed,
The conscience is calm and serene.
If thus you are dress’d, with God now at rest,
Believing in Jesus, the Lord,
Most glady you’ll own He is worthy alone,
And praises to Him will accord.
Then, let it be seen, by manner and mien,
That Christ is the Robe which you wear;
Your garments, dear child, maintain undeffi’d—
To keep them unspotted, take care.
In Jesus rejoice, attuning the voice,
To sing of His excellent Name,
So precious and sweet, so suited and meet
To sinners, uncloth’d, to proclaim.