As parched in the barren sands <br />Beneath a burning sky, <br />The worthless bramble with'ring stands, <br />And only grows to die. <br /> <br />Such is the sinner's aweful case, <br />Who makes the world his trust; <br />And dares his confidence to place <br />In vanity and dust. <br /> <br />A secret curse destroys his root, <br />And dries his moisture up; <br />He lives awhile, but bears no fruit, <br />Then dies without a hope. <br /> <br />But happy he whose hopes depend <br />Upon the Lord alone; <br />The soul that trusts in such a friend, <br />Can ne'er be overthrown. <br /> <br />Though gourds should wither, cisterns break, <br />And creature-comforts die; <br />No change his solid hope can shake, <br />Or stop his sure supply. <br /> <br />So thrives and blooms the tree whose roots <br />By constant streams are fed; <br />Arrayed in green, and rich in fruits, <br />It rears its branching head. <br /> <br />It thrives, though rain should be denied, <br />And drought around prevail; <br />'Tis planted by a river's side <br />Whose waters cannot fail.<br /><br />John Newton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/trust-of-the-wicked-and-the-righteous-compared/
