Congrats to the man
in stride not with wicked cautions
standing on sinful roads
or sitting on the mocker’s chair
But his pleasure’s fed from the Lord’s law
By sunlight, by moonlight he revolves
on your spindle, your rod, your standard
He towers as a tree rooted by streams
blooming in season
never to wither
leaves evergreen, for all he touches blossoms.
Not so the evil!
They are as chaff, dust, paint chips
Wisped in winter’s bitter wind
The wicked can’t stand in the judgment
Nor can sinners arise
In the path proved right by time alone
The Lord guards that route
The right way
As the wrong way fades away.