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Poem	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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