Not all the outward forms on earth,

Nor rites that God has giv'n,

Nor will of man, nor blood, nor birth,

Can raise a soul to heav'n.

The sovereign will of God alone

Creates us heirs of grace

Born in the image of his Son,

A new, peculiar race.

The Spirit, like some heav'nly wind,

Blows on the sons of flesh,

New-models all the carnal mind,

And forms the man afresh.

Our quickened souls awake, and rise

From the long sleep of death;

On heav'nly things we fix our eyes,

And praise employs our breath.