A safe strong­hold our God is still,
A trus­ty shield and wea­pon;
He’ll help us clear from all the ill
That hath us now o’er­tak­en.
The an­cient prince of hell
Hath ris­en with pur­pose fell;
Strong mail of craft and pow­er
He wear­eth in this hour;
On earth is not his fel­low.

With force of arms we no­thing can,
Full soon were we down-rid­den;
But for us fights the pro­per Man,
Whom God Him­self hath bid­den.
Ask ye, who is this same?
Christ Je­sus is His name,
The Lord Sa­ba­oth’s Son;
He, and no oth­er one,
Shall con­quer in the bat­tle.

And were this world all de­vils o’er,
And watch­ing to de­vour us,
We lay it not to heart so sore;
Not they can ov­er­pow­er us.
And let the prince of ill
Look grim as e’er he will,
He harms us not a whit;
For why? his doom is writ;
A word shall quick­ly slay him.

God’s Word, for all their craft and force,
One mo­ment will not lin­ger,
But, spite of hell, shall have its course;
’Tis writ­ten by His fin­ger.
And though they take our life,
Goods, hon­or, child­ren, wife,
Yet is their pro­fit small;
These things shall van­ish all:
The Ci­ty of God re­main­eth!