1 [Imputed righteousness is strange,
Nor will with human fancies range;
We guess the lurking motive well,
And Paul the hateful truth shall tell.]

2 The lofty heart can not submit
To cast itself at Jesus’ feet;
It scorns in borrowed robes to shine,
Though weaved with righteousness divine.

3 Proud nature cries, with loathing eyes,
“This imputation I despise,”
And from it she will pertly start,
Till grace has broken down her heart.

4 O give me, Lord, thy righteousness,
To be my peace and wedding dress!
My sores it heals, my rags it hides,
And makes me dutiful besides.