Ye sons of men, a fee-ble race,
Ex-posed to ev-ery snare,
Come, make the Lord your dwell-ing place,
And try and trust His care.
No ill shall en-ter where you dwell;
Or if the plague come nigh,
And sweep the wick-ed down to hell,
'Twill raise His saints on high.
He'll give His an-gels charge to keep
Your feet in all their ways;
To watch your pil-low while you sleep,
And guard your hap-py days.
Their hands shall bear you, lest you fall
And dash a-gainst the stones:
Are they not ser-vants at His call,
And sent to at-tend His sons?
Ad-ders and li-ons ye shall tread;
The tempt-er's wiles de-feat;
He that hath broke the ser-pent's head
Puts him be-neath your feet.
My grace shall ans-wer when they call;
In troub-le I'll be nigh;
My power shall help them when they fall,
And raise them when they die.
*Music: Composed April 2006 by Mitch Cervinka. Donated to the Public Domain for the unrestricted use of Christ's church.