What thousands never knew the road!

What thousands hate it when ’tis known!

None but the chosen tribes of God,

Will seek or choose it for their own.

A thousand ways in ruin end,

One, only, leads to joys on high;

By that my willing steps ascend,

Pleased with a journey to the sky.

No more I ask, or hope to find,

Delight or happiness below;

Sorrow may well possess the mind

That feeds where thorns and thistles grow.

The joy that fades is not for me,

I seek immortal joys above;

There, glory without end, shall be

The bright reward of faith and love.

Cleave to the world ye sordid worms,

Contented lick your native dust;

But God shall fight, with all his storms,

Against the idol of your trust.