God is the re­fuge of His saints,
When storms of sharp dis­tress in­vade;
E’er we can of­fer our com­plaints,
Behold Him pre­sent with His aid.

Let mount­ains from their seats be hurled
Down to the deep, and bur­ied there;
Convulsions shake the so­lid world:
Our faith shall ne­ver yield to fear.

Loud may the trou­bled ocean roar;
In sac­red peace our souls abide;
While ev­ery na­tion, ev­ery shore,
Trembles, and dreads the swell­ing tide.

There is a stream, whose gen­tle flow
Supplies the ci­ty of our God,
Life, love, and joy, still guid­ing through,
And wa­ter­ing our di­vine abode.

That sac­red stream, Thine ho­ly Word,
That all our rag­ing fear con­trols;
Sweet peace Thy pro­mis­es af­ford,
And give new strength to faint­ing souls.

Sion en­joys her mon­arch’s love,
Secure against a threa­ten­ing hour;
Nor can her firm foun­da­tions move,
Built on His truth, and armed with pow­er.