O King of saints with pi­ty­ing eye,
Thy poor af­flict­ed peo­ple see,
Who hold Thy Word, nor dare de­ny
Thy name, though suf­fer­ing loss for Thee.
Exposed to shame, and want, and pain,
Crushed by the per­se­cut­or’s pow­er,
Thou, Lord, their faint­ing souls sus­tain,
And keep them in their try­ing hour.

From an­ger, and con­temp­tu­ous pride,
From low re­venge, and faith­less fear,
Preserve, and still their spi­rits hide,
Till Thou in their be­half ap­pear.
Their fee­ble hearts con­firm, unite,
And fix on their re­ward above:
Embolden with Thy Spi­rit’s might,
And arm them with Thy pa­tient love.

Thee let the wit­ness­es con­fess
Before the re­bel sons of men,
Proclaim Thine all vic­to­ri­ous grace,
And suf­fer till with Thee they reign:
To Thee, and to each oth­er cleave,
While midst the ra­ven­ing wolves they lie,
A pat­tern to be­liev­ers live,
A pat­tern to be­liev­ers die!