Ye sons of men, a feeble race, Exposed to every snare, Come, make the Lord your dwelling place, And try and trust His care. No ill shall enter where you dwell; Or if the plague come nigh, And sweep the wicked down to hell, ’Twill raise His saints on high. He’ll give His angels charge to keep Your feet in all their ways; To watch your pillow while you sleep, And guard your happy days. Their hands shall bear you, lest you fall And dash against the stones: Are they not servants at His call, And sent t’attend His sons? Adders and lions ye shall tread; The tempter’s wiles defeat; He that hath broke the serpent’s head Puts him beneath your feet. “Because on Me they set their love, I’ll save them,” saith the Lord; “I’ll bear their joyful souls above Destruction and the sword. “My grace shall answer when they call, In trouble I’ll be nigh; My power shall help them when they fall, And raise them when they die. “They that on earth My Name have known I’ll honor them in Heav’n; There My salvation shall be shown, And endless live be giv’n.” |