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.