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.