Happy the man whose cautious feet
Shun the broad way that sinners go,
Who hates the place where atheists meet,
And fears to talk as scoffers do.
He loves t’employ the morning light
Amongst the statutes of the Lord;
And spends the wakeful hours of night,
With pleasure, pond’ring o’er His Word.
He, like a plant by gentle streams,
Shall flourish in immortal green;
And Heav’n will shine with kindest beams
On ev’ry work his hands begin.
But sinners find their counsels cross’d:
As chaff before the tempest flies,
So shall their hopes be blown and lost,
When the last trumpet shakes the skies.
In vain the rebel seeks to stand
In judgment with the pious race;
The dreadful Judge, with stern command,
Divides him to a diff’rent place.
“Straight is the way My saints have trod;
I bless’d the path, and drew it plain;
But you would choose the crooked road,
And down it leads to endless pain.”