Classic Poem

MY body's curious frame,
Full of wonders in each part,
O Lord, extols thy name;
Texture of thy sovereign art.

Shall I, alas! abuse
Organs of such noble worth?
Service to thee refuse
Slave to appetites of earth?

Did not the Son of God
Dignify this work of clay?
Our mortal ground he trod,
Mortality his array.

That which he rais'd so high,
I never more will disgrace:
Never to sin's employ
These honour'd members debase.

The bodies of the just
For shrines of glory design'd,
Shall awake from the dust,
Like their glorious Lord's refin'd.

O let my soul aspire
A bliss so great to secure:
It will my ardour fire
To keep my body all pure.