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C. M.

Afflicted saints happy, and prosperous sinners cursed.


Now I'm convinced the Lord is kind

To men of heart sincere;

Yet once my foolish thoughts repined,

And bordered on despair.

I grieved to see the wicked thrive,

And spoke with angry breath,

"How pleasant and profane they live!

How peaceful is their death!

"With well-fed flesh and haughty eyes,

They lay their fears to sleep;

Against the heav'ns their slanders rise,

While saints in silence weep.

"In vain I lift my hands to pray,

And cleanse my heart in vain;

For I am chastened all the day,

The night renews my pain."

Yet while my tongue indulged complaints,

I felt my heart reprove,-

"Sure I shall thus offend thy saints,

And grieve the men I love."

But still I found my doubts too hard,

The conflict too severe,

Till I retired to search thy word,

And learn thy secrets there.

There, as in some prophetic glass,

I saw the sinner's feet

High mounted on a slipp'ry place,

Beside a fiery pit.

I heard the wretch profanely boast,

Till at thy frown he fell;

His honors in a dream were lost,

And he awakes in hell.

Lord, what an envious fool I was!

How like a thoughtless beast!

Thus to suspect thy promised grace,

And think the wicked blest.

Yet I was kept from full despair,

Upheld by power unknown;

That blessed hand that broke the snare

Shall guide me to thy throne.

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