The forests, gulfs, and mountain crags,
And desolate sea-shore,
Can hide the rabbit, bear, and stag,
My fortress is the Lord.
Pray, how, my soul, can you thus say,
“To the mountains go,
Flea like a bird from dawning day,
The wicked bend the bow.”
“They string their weapon – keen and stark,
And notch their gory dart,
To the string so in the dark,
To pierce you through the heart.
If the foundations are to fall,
what can the righteous do?
Your fortress will not help at all,
The walls will crack askew.”
The Lord is in His holy hill,
His throne is set on high.
He sees all that has passed and will,
All is before his eye.
The Lord will test and try his people,
As in a crucible,
But His soul hates the man of evil,
Those with violence full.
God on the wicked rains down snares,
Fire, scorching wind,
So with dread he stops and stares,
This from his cup within.
The Lord is righteous. He is good,
Full of love and grace.
And those saints washed in His blood,
They shall see his face.