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.
More verses by William Cowper
- The New Convert
- To The Rev. Mr. Newton, Rector Of St. Mary Woolnoth
- The Yearly Distress; Or, Tithing-Time At Stock In Essex
- To A Friend In Distress (Translated From Owen)
- To A Young Friend, On His Arriving At Cambridge Wet, When No Rain Had Fallen There