Why do the weal­thy wick­ed boast,
And grow pro­fane­ly bold?
The mean­est por­tion of the just
Excels the sin­ner’s gold.

The wick­ed bor­rows of his friends,
But ne’er de­signs to pay;
The saint is mer­ci­ful and lends,
Nor turns the poor away.

His alms with li­ber­al heart he gives
Amongst the sons of need;
His me­mo­ry to long ag­es lives
And bless­èd is his seed.

His lips ab­hor to talk pro­fane,
To slan­der or de­fraud;
His rea­dy tongue de­clares to men
What he has learned of God.

The Law and Go­spel of the Lord
Deep in his heart ab­ide;
Led by the Spir­it and the Word,
His feet shall ne­ver slide.

When sin­ners fall, the right­eous stand,
Preserved from ev­ery snare;
They shall pos­sess the pro­mised land
And dwell for ev­er there.