Incarnate God! the soul that knows
Thy name’s mys­ter­ious pow­er
Shall dwell in un­dis­turbed re­pose,
Nor fear the try­ing hour.

Thy wis­dom, faith­ful­ness and love,
To fee­ble, help­less worms
A buck­ler and a re­fuge prove,
From en­emies and storms.

In vain the fowl­er spreads his net,
To draw them from Thy care;
Thy time­ly call in­structs their feet
To shun the art­ful snare.

When like a bane­ful pes­ti­lence
Sin mows its thou­sands down
On ev­ery side, with­out de­fense,
Thy grace se­cures Thine own.

No mid­night ter­rors haunt their bed,
No ar­row wounds by day;
Unhurt on ser­pents they shall tread,
If found in du­ty’s way.

Angels, un­seen, at­tend the saints
And bear them in their arms,
To cheer the spir­it when it faints,
And guard the life from harms.

The an­gels’ Lord, Him­self is nigh,
To them that love His name,
Ready to save them when they cry,
And put their foes to shame.

Crosses and chang­es are their lot,
Long as they so­journ here;
But since their Sav­ior chang­es not,
What have the saints to fear?