Clothe me, the child cries.
I am surrounded and afraid.
I have stood firm and now
My knees grow weak from standing.
Clothe me, she cries,
A little lamb lost among
These wolves disguised as men.
Clothe me now and take home.
Clothe me, she cries,
This child who, dying, counts it more
To be clothed within Your righteousness
Than in all the robes of Rome.
Clothe her, Lord,
Clothe all your children.
Rise, O Lord, against those wolves and men.
Tear down all their plans.
Clothe us, Lord.
We all are weak
And fainting and we long to be
Safe in clothes of purity.
Clothe us, Lord.
We are not pure.
Yet You are a lamb for all who trust
In You and in Your laid-down head.
Clothe us, little children, in
The safety of Your love.
Clothe us, take us home into
The wedding feast of the Lamb.
The Consolations of Writing 