Happy the Man Whose Cautious Feet

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.