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.

"Those 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."