1 Happy the man, whose cautious feet
Shun the broad way where sinners go,
Who hates the place where Atheists meet,
And fears to talk as scoffers do.

2 He loves t' employ his morning light
Among the statutes of the Lord:
And spends the wakeful hours of night
With pleasure, pond'ring o'er the word.

3 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.

4 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.

5 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.

6 "Strait is the way my saints have trode,
"I bless'd the path, and drew it plain,
"But you would chuse the crooked road;
"And down it leads to endless pain."