God is our re­fuge and de­fense;
In trou­ble our un­fail­ing aid;
Secure in His om­ni­po­tence,
What foe can make our souls afraid?

Yea, though the earth’s foun­da­tions rock,
And mount­ains down the gulf be hurled,
His peo­ple smile amid the shock,
They look be­yond this tran­si­ent world.

There is a ri­ver pure and bright,
Whose streams make glad the heav’n­ly plains;
Where, in eter­ni­ty of light,
The city of our God re­mains.

Built by the word of His com­mand,
With His un­cloud­ed pre­sence blest,
Firm as His throne the bul­warks stand;
There is our home, our hope, our rest.

Thither let fer­vent faith as­pire;
Our trea­sure and our heart be there;
O for a ser­aph’s wings of fire!
No—on the migh­ti­er wings of pray­er—

We reach at once that last re­treat,
And, ranged among the ran­somed throng,
Fall with the el­ders at His feet,
Whose name alone in­spires their song.

Ah, soon; how soon! our spir­its droop;
Unwont the air of Heav’n to breathe:
Yet God in ve­ry deed will stoop,
And dwell Him­self with men be­neath.

Come to Thy liv­ing tem­ples, then,
As in the an­cient times ap­pear;
Let earth be pa­ra­dise again,
And man, O God, Thine im­age here.