Classic Poem

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 murd'ring sword,
And made our lives and souls his care!