Lord, what a thought­less wretch was I,
To mourn, and mur­mur, and re­pine
To see the wick­ed placed on high,
In pride and robes of hon­or shine!

But O their end, their dread­ful end!
Thy sanc­tu­ary taught me so;
On slip­pe­ry rocks I see them stand,
And fie­ry bil­lows roll be­low.

Now let them boast how tall they rise,
I’ll ne­ver en­vy them again;
There they may stand with haugh­ty eyes,
Till they plunge deep in end­less pain.

Their fan­cied joys, how fast they flee!
Just like a dream when man awakes;
Their songs of soft­est har­mo­ny
Are but a pre­face to their plagues.

Now I es­teem their mirth and wine
Too dear to pur­chase with my blood;
Lord, ’tis enough that Thou art mine,
My life, my por­tion, and my God.