Sinners, for trans­gress­ion, see
Sharp dis­ease their youth con­sume,
And their beau­ty, like a tree,
Withering on an ear­ly tomb.

Food is loath­some to their taste,
And the eye re­volts from light;
All their joys to ru­in haste,
As the sun­set in­to night.

Then un­to the Lord they cry;
He in­clines a gra­cious ear,
Sends de­liv­er­ance from on high,
Rescues them from all their fear.

He with health re­news their frame,
Lengthens out their num­bered days,
Let them glo­ri­fy His name
With the sac­ri­fice of praise.

O that men would praise the Lord,
For His good­ness to their race,
For the won­ders of His Word,
And the rich­es of His grace!