He that hath made his refuge God

Shall find a most secure abode,

Shall walk all day beneath his shade,

And there at night shall rest his head.

Then will I say, "My God, thy power

Shall be my fortress and my tower;

I, that am formed of feeble dust,

Make thine almighty arm my trust."

Thrice happy man! thy Maker's care

Shall keep thee from the fowler's snare;

Satan, the fowler, who betrays

Unguarded souls a thousand ways.

Just as a hen protects her brood

From birds of prey that seek their blood,

Under her feathers, so the Lord

Makes his own arm his people's guard.

If burning beams of noon conspire

To dart a pestilential fire,

God is their life; his wings are spread

To shield them with a healthful shade.

If vapors with malignant breath

Rise thick, and scatter midnight death,

Isr'el is safe; the poisoned air

Grows pure, if Isr'el's God be there.

What though a thousand at thy side,

At thy right hand ten thousand died,

Thy God his chosen people saves

Amongst the dead, amidst the graves.

So when he sent his angel down

To make his wrath in Egypt known,

And slew their sons, his careful eye

Passed all the doors of Jacob by.

But if the fire, or plague, or sword,

Receive commission from the Lord

To strike his saints among the rest,

Their very pains and deaths are blest.

The sword, the pestilence, or fire,

Shall but fulfil their best desire;

From sins and sorrows set them free,

And bring thy children, Lord, to thee.