Cursed be the man that trusteth in man, and maketh flesh his arm, and whose heart departeth from the Lord. For he shall be like the heath in the desert, and shall not see when good cometh; but shall inhabit the parched places in the wilderness, in a salt land and not inhabited. Jeremiah 17:5-6
As parchèd in the barren sands
Beneath a burning sky,
The worthless bramble withering 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;
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.