On Thee, great Rul­er of the skies,
On Thee our stead­fast hope re­lies;
When hos­tile pow­ers against us join,
What aid so pre­sent, Lord, as Thine?

By Thee se­cured, no fears we own,
Though earth, con­vulsed, be­neath us groan,
Though tem­pests o’er her surface sweep,
And whirl her hills in­to the deep—

Though, armed with rage, be­fore our eyes
That deep in all its hor­rors rise,
While, as the tu­mult spreads around
The mount­ains trem­ble at the sound.

Behold fair Si­on’s blest re­treat,
Where God has fixed His awful seat;
Whose walls to Hea­ven’s al­migh­ty Lord
His chos­en re­si­dence af­ford.

No tem­pests here li­cen­tious stray,
But soft along their le­vel way
The sacr­ed streams their course main­tain,
And crown with health their hap­py plain.

God, ev­er watch­ful, ev­er nigh,
Bids storms around her harm­less fly;
His ear­ly care each foe with­stands,
And back­ward turns the yield­ing bands.