My re­fuge is the God of love;
Why do my foes in­sult and cry,
Fly like a ti­mor­ous, trem­bling dove,
To dist­ant woods or mount­ains fly?

If gov­ern­ment be all de­stroyed,
That firm foun­da­tion of our peace,
And vio­lence make jus­tice void,
Where shall the right­eous seek re­dress?

The Lord in Heav’n has fixed His throne,
His eye sur­veys the world be­low;
To Him all mor­tal things are known,
His eye­lids search our spir­its through.

If He af­flicts His saints so far,
To prove their love and try their grace,
What may the bold trans­gress­ors fear?
His ve­ry soul ab­hors their ways.

On im­pi­ous wretch­es He shall rain
Tempests of brim­stone, fire and death;
Such as He kin­dled on the plain
Of Sodom with His ang­ry breath.

The right­eous Lord loves right­eous souls,
Whose thoughts and act­ions are sin­cere;
And with a gra­cious eye be­holds
The men that His own im­age bear.