In the Lord put I my trust: How say ye to my soul, Psalm 11:1
Flee as a bird to your mountain?
To the rock flies the cony, the stork to her nest,
When tempests are gathering and black is the west;
So swift, by life’s trials o’erwhelmed and oppressed,
I fly to my refuge, Jehovah, my rest!
The nest, whither speedeth the storm beaten bird,
Aloft, on the fir top by tempests is stirred;
But the nest of my refuge no storm wind can smite;
’Tis the breast of Jehovah; I’m safe from afright.
The rock where the cony securely may hide
Is set in the mountain’s cold, pitiless side;
But the rock of my safety, the home of my quest,
’Tis the heart of my Savior: How warm and how blest!
Then blow, thou wild tempest, I fear not thy might,
Tho’ blackly thou lowerest, my prospect is bright;
Jehovah, my Savior, I fly to Thy breast;
Dear rock of my refuge! Dear sheltering nest!