My spir­it looks to God alone;
My rock and re­fuge is His throne;
In all my fears, in all my straits,
My soul on His sal­va­tion waits.

Trust Him, ye saints, in all your ways,
Pour out your hearts be­fore His face:
When help­ers fail, and foes in­vade,
God is our all-suf­fi­cient aid.

False are the men of high de­gree,
The bas­er sort are va­ni­ty;
Laid in the ba­lance, both ap­pear
Light as a puff of emp­ty air.

Make not in­creas­ing gold your trust,
Nor set your hearts on glit­ter­ing dust;
Why will you grasp the fleet­ing smoke,
And not be­lieve what God has spoke?

Once has His aw­ful voice de­clared,
Once and again my ears have heard,
All power is His eter­nal due;
He must be feared, and trust­ed, too.

For so­ver­eign pow­er reigns not alone,
Grace is a part­ner on the throne:
Thy grace and jus­tice, migh­ty Lord,
Shall well di­vide our last re­ward.