The Trust of the Wicked and the Righteous Compared

As parched in the barren sands, Beneath a burning sky, The worthless bramble with’ring stands, And only grows to die;

Such is the sinner’s awful case, Who makes the world his trust, And dares his confidence to place In vanity and dust.

A secret curse destroys his root, And dries his moisture up; He lives awhile, but bears no fruit, Then dies without a hope.

But happy he whose hopes depend Upon the Lord alone; The soul that trusts in such a Friend Can ne’er be overthrown.

Though gourds should wither, cisterns break. And creature-comforts die, No change his solid hope can shake, Or stop his sure supply.

So thrives and blooms the tree whose roots By constant streams are fed; Array’d in green, and rich in fruits, It rears its branching head.

It thrives though rain should be denied, And drought around prevail; ’Tis planted by a river side Whose waters cannot fail.