God lov­eth the right­eous,
His good­ness is sure.
He ne­ver for­sak­eth
The good and the pure.
Yet once my faith fal­tered,
I en­vied the proud,
In doubt and dis­qui­et
My spirit was bowed.

The wick­ed are pros­per­ous
And firm in their strength,
No pangs do they suffer,
Though death come at length.
They are not in trouble
As other men are,
The plagues of their fellows
They view from afar.

In garments of boasting
And violence decked,
With wealth more abundant
Than heart could expect,
They scoff, and the helpless
They proudly oppress.
The heavens and the earth
They assume to possess.

Despising God’s people,
They cause them to drain
The cup of oppression,
Injustice and pain.
They question God’s knowledge
And boldly defy
The might and the justice
Of God the Most High.

The wicked, grown wealthy,
Have comfort and peace,
While I, daily chastened,
See troubles increase,
And, wronging God’s children,
I cried in my pain,
That clean hands are worthless
And pure hearts are vain.

I went to God’s temple:
My doubts were dispelled.
The end of life’s journey
I clearly beheld.
I saw in what peril
Ungodly men stand,
With sudden destruction
And ruin at hand.

As when one waking
Forgetteth his dream,
So God will despise them,
Though great they may seem.
My envy was senseless;
My grief was for naught.
Because I was faithless,
And foolish my thought.