Help, Lord, for those who love Thee fail,
Thy faith­ful ones fall from the ranks,
And leave the li­ars to their tale,
False gra­ti­tude and trea­cher­ous thanks.

Lord, may those flat­ter­ing lips be lashed,
The boast­ing mouths stripped of their pride,
Those tongues that mur­mur un­abashed,
Who is this God? We shall abide!

Because the poor have been op­pressed,
And in their pa­tience sigh alone,
I will pro­tect them in My breast,
The Lord has said, These are Mine own.

And what He saith is pu­ri­fied
Like sil­ver, se­ven­fold as­sayed.
Though by this ev­il age de­fied,
His Word of truth shall be ob­eyed.

His pro­mis­es shall stand se­cure,
His saints are safe, though ill be­tide,
He will pro­tect His hum­ble poor,
Though rogues are hon­ored far and wide.