My trust is in my heav’n­ly friend,
My hope in Thee, my God;
Rise, and my help­less life de­fend
From those that seek my blood.

With in­so­lence and fu­ry they
My soul in piec­es tear,
As hun­gry li­ons rend the prey
When no de­li­ver­er’s near.

If I had e’er pro­voked them first,
Or once abused my foe,
Then let him tread my life to dust,
And lay mine hon­or low.

If there be ma­lice found in me,
I know Thy pierc­ing eyes;
I should not dare ap­peal to Thee,
Nor ask my God to rise.

Arise, my God, lift up Thy hand,
Their pride and pow’r con­trol;
Awake to judg­ment and com­mand
Deliverance for my soul.

Let sin­ners and their wick­ed rage
Be hum­bled to the dust;
Shall not the God of truth en­gage
To vin­di­cate the just?

He knows the heart, He tries the reins,
He will de­fend th’upright:
His sharp­est ar­rows He or­dains
Against the sons of spite.

For me their ma­lice dug a pit,
But there them­selves are cast;
My God makes all their mis­chief light
On their own heads at last.

That cru­el per­se­cut­ing race
Must feel His dread­ful sword;
Awake, my soul, and praise the grace
And jus­tice of the Lord.