Unshaken as the sac­red hill,
And firm as mount­ains be,
Firm as a rock the soul shall rest
That leans, O Lord, on Thee.

Not walls nor hills could guard so well
Old Sa­lem’s hap­py ground,
As those eter­nal arms of love
That ev­ery saint sur­round.

While ty­rants are a smart­ing scourge
To drive them near to God,
Divine com­pas­sion does al­lay
The fu­ry of the rod.

Deal gent­ly, Lord, with souls sin­cere,
And lead them safe­ly on
To the bright gates of pa­ra­dise,
Where Christ their Lord is gone.

But if we trace the crook­ed ways
That the old ser­pent drew,
The wrath that drove him first to hell
Shall smite his fol­low­ers, too.