I
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.
II
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.
III
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.
IV
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.
V
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.