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L. M.

The prosperity of sinners cursed.

Lord, what a thoughtless wretch was I,

To mourn, and murmur, and repine,

To see the wicked placed on high,

In pride and robes of honor shine!

But O their end, their dreadful end!

Thy sanctuary taught me so;

On slipp'ry rocks I see them stand,

And fiery billows roll below.

Now let them boast how tall they rise,

I'll never envy them again;

There they may stand with haughty eyes,

Till they plunge deep in endless pain.

Their fancied joys, how fast they flee!

Just like a dream when man awakes;

Their songs of softest harmony

Are but a preface to their plagues.

Now I esteem their mirth and wine

Too dear to purchase with my blood;

Lord, 'tis enough that thou art mine,

My life, my portion, and my God.

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