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Curse is the man who trusts in man, While making his flesh his strength; His heart knows not of the Lord’s plan, Turning away at a great length. He is like shrubs in the desert, And shall not see any good go; Parched places that wind will divert, Aimlessly to where it may flow. Bless the man who trusts in the Lord, Keeping His confidence in Him; Whose hope is placed in one accord, With such joy never feeling grim. Like a tree planted by the waters, Sending out roots into the stream; His fruit are sons and daughters, In their hearts the Lord reigns supreme. He will never fear from the heat, While his leaves will remain green; The presence of the Lord will greet, The yielding of fruit as pure and clean. Copyright ©2022 Richard Newton Sherrer Vote for this poem
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