Thou art my hid­ing place, O Lord,
In Thee I put my trust;
Encouraged by Thy ho­ly Word,
A fee­ble child of dust;
I have no ar­gu­ment beside,
I urge no oth­er plea;
And ’tis enough my Sav­ior died,
My Sav­ior died for me.

When storms of fierce temp­ta­tion beat,
And fu­ri­ous foes as­sail,
My re­fuge is the mer­cy seat,
My hope with­in the veil.
From strife of tongues and bit­ter words
My spi­rit flies to Thee:
Joy to my heart the thought af­fords,
My Sav­ior died for me.

’Mid tri­als hea­vy to the be borne,
When mor­tal strength is vain,
A heart with grief and ang­uish torn,
A bo­dy racked with pain,
Ah! what could the suf­fer­er rest,
Bid ev­ery mur­mur flee,
But this, the wit­ness in my breast
That Je­sus died for me?

And when Thine aw­ful voice com­mands
This bo­dy to de­cay,
And life, in its last lin­ger­ing sands,
Is ebb­ing fast away,
Then, though it be in ac­cents weak,
And faint and trem­bling­ly,
O give me strength in death to speak,
My Sav­ior died for me.