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John Newton - Trust Of The Wicked, And The Righteous Compared
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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.
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