The rush may rise where waters flow,

and flags beside the stream;

But soon their verdure fades and dies

before the scorching beam

So is the sinner’s hope cut off;

or, if it transient rise,

’Tis like the spider’s airy web,

from every breath that flies.

Fixed on his house he leans; his house

and all its props decay:

He holds it fast; but, while he holds,

the tott’ring frame gives way.

Fair in his garden, to the sun

his boughs with verdure smile;

And, deeply fixed, his spreading roots

unshaken stand a while.

But forth the sentence flies from Heav’n,

that sweeps him from his place;

Which then denies him for its lord,

nor owns it knew his face.

Lo! this the joy of wicked men,

who Heav’n’s high laws despise:

They quickly fall; and in their room

as quickly others rise.

But, for the just, with gracious care,

God will his power employ;

He’ll teach their lips to sing his praise,

and fill their hearts with joy.