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.