A song for the fifth of November.
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;
The swelling tide had stopt our breath,
So fiercely did the waters roll,
We had been swallow’d deep in death;
Proud waters had o’erwhelm’d our soul.
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.
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.
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.