Classic Poem

The Lord for ever guards the just,
His ears attend their cry;
When broken spirits dwell in dust,
The God of grace is nigh.

What though the sorrows here they taste,
Be sharp and tedious too,
The Lord, who saves his saints at last,
Is their supporter now.

Evil shall smite the wicked dead;
But God secures his own;
Prevents the mischief when they slide,
Or heals the broken bone.

When desolation, like a flood,
O'er the proud sinner rolls;
Saints find a refuge in their God,
For he redeems their souls.