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 life be giv’n.