Happy the man who fear­eth God,
Whose feet His ho­ly ways have trod;
Thine own good hand shall nour­ish thee,
And well and hap­py shalt thou be.

Thy wife shall, like a fruit­ful vine,
Fill all thy house with clus­ters fine;
Thy child­ren all be fresh and sound,
Like ol­ive-plants thy ta­ble round.

Lo! to the man these bless­ings cleave
Who in God’s ho­ly fear doth live;
From him the an­cient curse hath fled
By Ad­am’s race in­her­it­ed.

Out of Mount Zion God shall send,
And crown with joy thy lat­ter end;
That thou Je­ru­sa­lem mayst see,
In fa­vor and pros­per­ity.

He shall be with thee in thy ways,
And give thee health and length of days;
Yea, thou shalt child­ren’s child­ren see,
And peace on Is­ra­el shall be.