To the rock flies the co­ny, the stork to her nest,
When tem­pests are ga­ther­ing and black is the west;
So swift, by life’s tri­als o’er­whelmed and op­pressed,
I fly to my re­fuge, Je­ho­vah, my rest!

The nest, whi­ther speed­eth the storm beat­en bird,
Aloft, on the fir top by tem­pests is stirred;
But the nest of my re­fuge no storm wind can smite;
’Tis the breast of Je­ho­vah; I’m safe from afright.

The rock where the co­ny se­cure­ly may hide
Is set in the mount­ain’s cold, pi­ti­less side;
But the rock of my safe­ty, the home of my quest,
’Tis the heart of my Sav­ior: How warm and how blest!

Then blow, thou wild tem­pest, I fear not thy might,
Tho’ black­ly thou low­er­est, my pro­spect is bright;
Jehovah, my Sav­ior, I fly to Thy breast;
Dear rock of my re­fuge! Dear shel­ter­ing nest!