My brother's got a black an' white picture with numbers across his chest.
An' he'll do fifteen more years if his behaviour stays at its best.
He took the blame to save his best friend's name,
In a job that went bad down in Birmingham.
Yeah, but he don't mind that orange suit,
'Cause he knows the clothes don't make the man.
Two cells down from where my brother lays his head,
The walls echo "Amazing Grace" an' quotes of Scriptures that man once read.
When he preyed upon the little souls
Of all those boys that did not understand.
That you can wear a robe that's laced with gold,
But the clothes don't make the man.
Designer names, rips an' stains shouldn't tell you who I am.
'Cause sometimes Angels hide their wings,
An' the devil's dressed like a lamb.
Yeah, the clothes don't make the man.
They all laughed an' called Him names when He said he was sent to be their king.
"You don't even own a home; you got simple clothes an' sandals on your feet."
Stripped of his pride, He was crucified on a cross,
With nails of hatred in His hands.
But He rose from the grave in three days:
Yeah, the clothes don't make the man.
Designer names, rips an' stains shouldn't tell you who I am.
'Cause sometimes Angels hide their wings,
An' the devil's dressed like a lamb.
Yeah, the clothes don't make the man.
Instrumental Break.
Designer names, rips an' stains shouldn't tell you who I am.
'Cause sometimes Angels hide their wings,
An' the devil's dressed like a lamb.
Yeah, the clothes don't make the man.
They don't make the man.
They don't make the man.
They don't make the man.
Don't make the man.
Don't make the man.
Whoa.
Yeah, yeah.
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