Firm and un­moved are they
That rest their souls on God;
Firm as the mount where Da­vid dwelt,
Or where the ark abode.

As mount­ains stood to guard
The city’s sac­red ground,
So God and His al­migh­ty love
Embrace His saints around.

What tho’ the Fa­ther’s rod
Drop a chas­tis­ing stroke,
Yet lest it wound their souls too deep
Its fu­ry shall be broke.

Deal gent­ly, Lord, with those
Whose faith and pi­ous fear,
Whose hope, and love, and ev­ery grace
Proclaim their hearts sin­cere.

Nor shall the ty­rant’s rage
Too long op­press the saint;
The God of Is­ra­el will sup­port
His child­ren lest they faint.

But if our slav­ish fear
Will choose the road to hell,
We must ex­pect our por­tion there,
Where bold­er sin­ners dwell.