The poem
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.