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.