1 God is the re­fuge of His saints,
When storms of sharp dis­tress in­vade
Ere we can of­fer our com­plaints,
Behold Him pre­sent with His aid.

2 Let mount­ains from their seats be hurled
Down to the deep, and bur­ied there,
Convulsions shake the sol­id world,
Our faith shall ne­ver yield to fear.

3 Loud may the trou­bled ocean roar,
In sac­red peace our souls ab­ide,
While ev­ery na­tion, ev­ery shore,
Trembles, and dreads the swell­ing tide.

4 There is a stream, whose gen­tle flow
Supplies the ci­ty of our God;
Life, love, and joy still guid­ing through,
And wa­t'r­ing our di­vine ab­ode.

5 That sac­red stream, Thine ho­ly Word,
That all our rag­ing fear con­trols;
Sweet peace Thy pro­mis­es af­ford,
And give new strength to faint­ing souls.

6 Zion en­joys her Mon­arch’s love,
Secure against a threa­t'n­ing hour;
Nor can her firm foun­da­tions move,
Built on His truth, and armed with pow­er.