1 Ye Sons of Men, a feeble Race,
Expos'd to ev'ry 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 Soul above
Destruction and the Sword.
7 "My Grace shall answer when they call;
"In Trouble I'll be nigh;
"My Pow'r 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 Heav'n;
"There my Salvation shall be shown,
"And endless Life be giv'n."
Text Information | |
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First Line: | Ye Sons of Men, a feeble Race |
Title: | Protection form Death, Guard of Angels, Victory and Deliverance |
Language: | English |
Publication Date: | 1791 |
Topic: | Frailty of Our Life; Funeral Hymns |
Notes: | Public Domain. |