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 Saviour changes not,
What have the saints to fear?