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Poem	The saint's trial and safety. Unshaken as the sacred hill, And firm as mountains be, Firm as a rock the soul shall rest That leans, O Lord, on thee. Not walls nor hills could guard so well Old Salem's happy ground, As those eternal arms of love That every saint surround. While tyrants are a smarting scourge To drive them near to God, Divine compassion does allay The fury of the rod. Deal gently, Lord, with souls sincere, And lead them safely on To the bright gates of Paradise, Where Christ their Lord is gone. But if we trace those crooked ways That the old serpent drew, The wrath that drove him first to hell Shall smite his followers too.
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