Isaac Watts, 1674-1748
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!
2. But O their end, their dreadful end!
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 fancied joys, how fast they flee!
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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