Help us, O Lord, the good de­cay;
The faith­ful from the world de­part;
The li­ar rules with sub­tle sway,
The false smooth lip, the dou­ble heart.

The flat­ter­er’s guile the Lord shall quell,
The mouth that speaks with boast­ful glee—
Our tongues in match­less pow­er ex­cel,
Our lips are strong; what lord have we?

He hears the poor man’s deep-drawn sighs
He sees the hearts that in­ly mourn,
And Lo, I come, He saith, I rise
To save thee from the ty­rant’s scorn.

Thy Word is pure and per­fect, Lord,
As sil­ver in the fur­nace tried:
Seven times as­sayed, that ho­ly Word
Seven times hath come forth pu­ri­fied.

The souls, O Lord, that with Thee walk
Thy love will shield in ev­il hour,
On ev­ery side, though sin­ners stalk,
And base­ness climbs to lof­ty pow­er.