8,8,8,8

The narrow way.

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.