Blest with the joys of in­no­cence,
Adam our fa­ther stood,
Till he de­based his soul to sense,
And ate th’un­law­ful food.

Now we are born a sen­su­al race,
To sin­ful joys in­clined;
Reason has lost its na­tive place,
And flesh en­slaves the mind.

While flesh, and sense, and pas­sion reigns,
Sin is the sweet­est good;
We fan­cy mu­sic in our chains,
And so for­get the load.

Great God! re­new our rui­ned frame,
Our brok­en pow­ers re­store,
Inspire us with a heav’n­ly flame,
And flesh shall reign no more.

Eternal Spi­rit! write Thy law
Upon our in­ward parts,
And let the se­cond Ad­am draw
His im­age on our hearts.