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 aweful 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; Arrayed 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's side Whose waters cannot fail.