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Trust of the Wicked, and the Righteous Compared

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.
Other works by John Newton...



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