1 Lord, what a thoughtless wretch was I,
To mourn, and murmur, and repine
To see the wicked plac'd on high,
In pride and robes of honour shine.
2 But, Oh their end, their dreadful end!
Thy sanctuary taught me so:
On slipp'ry rocks I see them stand,
And fiery billows roll below.
3 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.
4 Their fancy'd joys, how fast they flee!
Like dreams, as fleeting and as vain,
Their songs of softest harmony,
Are but a preface to their pain.
5 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.
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