The Rush May Rise

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 tot­ter­ing frame gives way.

Fair is 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 Heav­en

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 Heav­en’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.