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 There is a stream whose gentle flow
Supplies the city of our God;
Life, love, and joy still gliding through,
And watering our divine abode: --
4 That sacred stream, thy holy word, --
That all our raging fear controls:
Sweet peace thy promises afford,
And give new strength to fainting souls.
Isaac Watts, 1719.