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 trust His care.
No ill shall enter where you dwell;
Or if the plague come nigh,
And sweep the wicked down to
’Twill raise His saints on high.
He’ll give His angels charge to keep
Your feet in all their
To watch your pillow while you sleep,
And guard your happy days.
Their hands shall bear you, lest you
And dash against the stones:
Are they not servants at His call,
And sent t’attend His sons?
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
“My grace shall answer when they call,
In trouble I’ll be nigh;
My power shall help them when they
And raise them when they die.
“They that on earth My Name have known
I’ll honor them in Heav’n;
There My salvation shall be shown,
And endless live be giv’n.”
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