1 To thee, in my distress, I prostrate fall;
Blest father, aid me, for on thee I call;
2 Let shame, let dire dishonour, them confound,
Who by insidious snares my soul wou'd wound;
When calls the trumpet's sprightly sound to arms,
Strike thou their hearts, O God, with dread alarms;
3 That they may to their coward-terrors yield,
Turn basely back, and trembling fly the field.
4 While they, who trust in thee, thy laws who love,
Their grateful souls in joyous anthems prove,
Thy mercies to the righteous magnify,
And raise their maker's praises to the sky.
5 Poor tho' I am, tho' misery is mine;
Yet have I solace in thy aid divine;
My great deliverer thou; my strength, my stay;
O dissipate my griefs; nor make delay.