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 pon­der­ing o’er the 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 crossed:
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 dif­fer­ent place.

Straight is the way My saints have trod;
I blest the path, and drew it plain;
But you would choose the crook­ed road,
And down it leads to end­less pain.