1 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.

2 He loves t' employ his Morning-Light
Amongst 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 every Work his Hands begin.

4 But Sinners find their Counsels crost;
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 different Place.

6 "Strait is the Way my Saints have trod,
"I blessed the Path, and drew it plain;
"But you would chuse the crooked Road;
"And down it leads to endless Pain."