The Narrow Way.

1 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.