As parched in the barren sands

Trust of the wicked, and the righteous compared by John Newton


 * 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.