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.