Cursed is the one who trusts in man,
Who leans on him for might.
He turns away from God the Lord;
His heart re­jects what’s right.
He’s like a bush out in the waste;
Good times will pass him by.
His place is parched and de­so­late,
With none to hear his cry.

But blessed the man who trusts the Lord;
God is his hope and stay.
He’s like a tree be­side a stream;
Its roots drink deep each day.
It ne­ver fears in sum­mer­time;
Its leaves are al­ways green.
It has no wor­ries in a drought;
Its fruit is al­ways seen.

Lord, may I ne­ver in man­kind
Place con­fi­dence or hope.
A fruit­less, bar­ren state that brings,
With none to help me cope.
But may I al­ways trust in You;
Your Word will quench my thirst.
You’ll give me strength for ev­ery tri­al;
I’ll al­ways put You first.