As parched in the barren
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
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
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
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
Whose waters cannot fail.
Olney Hymn
