A song for the fifth of November.
1 Had not the Lord, may Israel say,
Had not the Lord maintain'd our side,
When men to make our lives a prey,
Rose like the swelling of the tide;
2 The swelling tide had stopped our breath,
So fiercely did the waters roll,
We had been swallow'd deep in death;
Proud waters had o'erwhelm'd our soul.
3 We leap for joy, we shout and sing,
Who just escap'd the fatal stroke;
So flies the bird with cheerful wing,
When once the fowler's snare is broke.
4 For ever blessed be the Lord,
Who broke the fowler's cursed snare,
Who sav'd us from the murdering sword,
And made our lives and souls his care.
5 Our help is in Jehovah's name,
Who form'd the earth and built the skies;
He that upholds that wondrous frame
Guards his own church with watchful eyes.