He that hath made his re­fuge God
Shall find a most se­cure abode;
Shall walk all day be­neath His shade,
And there at night shall rest his head.

Then will I say, My God, Thy pow­er
Shall be my fort­ress and my tow­er;
I, that am formed of fee­ble dust,
Make Thine al­migh­ty arm my trust.

Thrice happy man! Thy mak­er’s care
Shall keep thee from the fowl­er’s snare,
Satan, the fowl­er, who be­trays
Unguarded souls a thou­sand ways.

Just as a hen pro­tects her brood
From birds of prey that seek their blood
Under her fea­thers, so the Lord
Makes His own arm His peo­ple’s guard.

If burn­ing beams of noon con­spire
To dart a pes­ti­len­tial fire,
God is their life; His wings are spread
To shield them with a health­ful shade.

If vapors with ma­lig­nant breath
Rise thick, and scat­ter mid­night death,
Israel is safe; the poi­soned air
Grows pure, if Is­ra­el’s God be there.

What though a thou­sand at thy side,
At thy right hand ten thou­sand died,
Thy God His chos­en peo­ple saves
Amongst the dead, amidst the graves.

So when He sent His an­gel down
To make His wrath in Egypt known,
And slew their sons, His care­ful eye
Passed all the doors of Jacob by.

But if the fire, or plague, or sword,
Receive com­mis­sion from the Lord
To strike His saints among the rest,
Their ve­ry pains and deaths are blest.

The sword, the pes­ti­lence or fire,
Shall but ful­fill their best de­sire;
From sins and sor­rows set them free,
And bring Thy child­ren, Lord, to Thee.