Who would not rather trust and be deceived?

Hear the words of Eliza Cook, poet of the nineteenth century, who gave voice to the common heart with this striking question: “Who would not rather trust and be deceived?” These words are not spoken with naïveté but with the strength of one who knows the weight of betrayal, yet still proclaims that the greater tragedy lies in never trusting at all. For to live with suspicion as one’s constant companion is to live in chains, and to trust, even at the cost of deception, is to remain free in spirit.

The ancients would say that life without trust is like a barren field without rain. Seeds may be sown, but nothing grows, for suspicion dries the soil. Yes, storms may come, and sometimes false promises may wound the tender shoots. But the field that dares to drink in the rain will always yield more than the one left parched. Thus Cook’s question calls us to reflect: is it not better to open the gates of the heart, even if risk lurks beyond, than to keep them locked forever against the possibility of love, friendship, or hope?

Consider the tale of Julius Caesar and Brutus. History remembers the sting of betrayal—the dagger thrust by a friend. Yet had Caesar never trusted, he would never have united his armies, never have forged bonds that carried him to power. The wound of deception was sharp, but the power of trust had carried him further than suspicion ever could. And though it ended in tragedy, his story lives not as a warning against trusting, but as proof that great deeds are only possible when men risk themselves in faith of others.

To trust is to act in courage. To guard against every possibility of hurt is to shrink from life itself. Eliza Cook’s words remind us that even in the face of deception, the soul that trusts shines brighter than the one that hides. A deceived heart may ache, but it is still alive; a heart closed by suspicion is already entombed. Better to be wounded in pursuit of connection than to wither in isolation.

There is also humility in this teaching. For who among us has not at some time deceived another, whether by weakness, by fear, or by folly? And yet, we hope others will forgive us, will trust us again, will not close their hearts forever against our failures. To be willing to trust others, even at risk, is to grant them the same mercy we ourselves desire when we fall short. In this way, trust becomes not only an act of courage, but an act of compassion.

The lesson here is profound: do not let fear of betrayal bind you. Choose trust again and again, for it is the only soil in which love, friendship, and progress can grow. Yes, you may be deceived—but you will also be surprised, uplifted, and transformed. To live with suspicion is to live half-dead, but to live with trust is to drink fully from the cup of life, even if sometimes it is bitter.

So, children of tomorrow, take these words into your bones: better to trust and be deceived than never to trust at all. Live with open hands, even if some grasp them falsely. Speak with open hearts, even if some reply with lies. For the world is not healed by suspicion, but by faith. And though trust may sometimes wound you, it will also carry you to joys and wonders suspicion can never touch. This is the wisdom Eliza Cook leaves us—a call to live bravely, vulnerably, and fully human.