Incarnate God! the soul that knows

Thy name’s mysterious power

Shall dwell in undisturbed repose,

Nor fear the trying hour.

Thy wisdom, faithfulness and love,

To feeble helpless worms;

A buckler and a refuge prove,

From enemies and storms.

In vain the fowler spreads his net,

To draw them from thy care;

Thy timely call instructs their feet,

To shun the artful snare.

When like a baneful pestilence,

Sin mows its thousands down

On every side, without defence,

Thy grace secures thine own.

No midnight terrors haunt their bed,

No arrow wounds by day;

Unhurt on serpents they shall tread,

If found in duty’s way.

Angels, unseen, attend the saints,

And bear them in their arms;

To cheer the spirit when it faints,

And guard the life from harms.

The angels’ Lord, himself is nigh,

To them that love his name;

Ready to save them when they cry,

And put their foes to shame.

Crosses and changes are their lot,

Long as they sojourn here;

But since their Savior changes not,

What have the saints to fear?