Ye sons of men, a fee­ble race,
Exposed to ev­ery snare,
Come, make the Lord your dwell­ing place,
And try, and trust His care.

No ill shall en­ter where you dwell;
Or if the plague come nigh,
And sweep the wick­ed down to hell,
’Twill raise His saints on high.

He’ll give His an­gels charge to keep
Your feet in all their ways;
To watch your pil­low while you sleep,
And guard your hap­py days.

Their hands shall bear you, lest you fall
And dash against the stones:
Are they not ser­vants at His call,
And sent t’at­tend His sons?

Adders and li­ons ye shall tread;
The tempt­er’s wiles de­feat;
He that hath broke the ser­pent’s head
Puts him be­neath your feet.

Because on Me they set their love,
I’ll save them, sa­ith the Lord;
“I’ll bear their joy­ful souls above
Destruction and the sword.

“My grace shall an­swer when they call,
In trou­ble I’ll be nigh;
My pow­er shall help them when they fall,
And raise them when they die.

They that on earth My name have known
I’ll hon­or them in Heav’n;
There My sal­va­tion shall be shown,
And end­less life be giv’n.