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.
�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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