628. Ye sons of men, a feeble race

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."

Text Information
First Line: Ye sons of men, a feeble race
Author: Isaac Watts
Publication Date: 1835
Meter: C. M.
Scripture: Psalm 91:9-16
Language: English
Tune Information
(No tune information)



Media
More media are available on the text authority page.