On Thee, great Ruler of the skies,
On Thee our steadfast hope relies;
When hostile powers against us join,
What aid so present, Lord, as Thine?
By Thee secured, no fears we own,
Though earth, convulsed, beneath us groan,
Though tempests o’er her surface sweep,
And whirl her hills into the deep—
Though, armed with rage, before our eyes
That deep in all its horrors rise,
While, as the tumult spreads around
The mountains tremble at the sound.
Behold fair Sion’s blest retreat,
Where God has fixed His awful seat;
Whose walls to Heaven’s almighty Lord
His chosen residence afford.
No tempests here licentious stray,
But soft along their level way
The sacred streams their course maintain,
And crown with health their happy plain.
God, ever watchful, ever nigh,
Bids storms around her harmless fly;
His early care each foe withstands,
And backward turns the yielding bands.