As Parchèd in the Barren Sands

As parch­èd in the bar­ren sands

Beneath a burn­ing sky

The worth­less bram­ble wi­ther­ing stands

And on­ly grows to die.

Such is the sin­ner’s aw­ful 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.