| 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 keepYour feet in all their ways;
 To watch your pillow while you sleep,
 And guard your happy days.
 Their hands shall bear you, lest you fallAnd 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 knownI’ll honor them in Heav’n;
 There My salvation shall be shown,
 And endless live be giv’n.”
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