1 Ye sons of men, a feeble race, Expos'd to every snare, Come make the Lord your dwelling-place, And try and trust his care.
2 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.
3 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.
4 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?
5 Adders and lions ye shall tread; The tempter's wiles defeat; He that hath broke the serpent's head Puts him beneath your feet.
6 "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.
7 "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.
8 "Those that on earth my Name have known, "I'll honour them in heaven; "There my salvation shall be shown, "And endless life be given."