Lord, how se­cure and blest are they
Who feel the joys of par­doned sin!
Should storms of wrath shake earth and sea,
Their minds have Heav’n and peace with­in.

The day glides swift­ly o’er their heads,
Made up of in­no­cence and love;
And soft and si­lent as the shades
Their night­ly minutes gent­ly move.

Quick as their thoughts their joys come on,
But fly not half so swift away;
Their souls are ev­er bright as noon,
And calm as sum­mer ev­en­ings be.

How oft they look to heav’n­ly hills,
Where groves of liv­ing plea­sure grow!
And long­ing hopes and cheer­ful smiles
Sit un­dis­turbed up­on their brow.

They scorn to seek our gold­en toys,
But spend the day and share the night
In num­ber­ing o’er the rich­er joys
That Heav’n pre­pares for their de­light.

While wretch­ed we, like worms and moles,
Lie gro­vel­ing in the dust be­low,
Almighty grace, re­new our souls,
And we’ll as­pire to glo­ry, too.