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L. M.

The church's safety and triumph among national desolations.

God is the refuge of his saints,

When storms of sharp distress invade

Ere we can offer our complaints,

Behold him present with his aid.

Let mountains from their seats be hurled

Down to the deep, and buried there,

Convulsions shake the solid world,

Our faith shall never yield to fear.

Loud may the troubled ocean roar,

In sacred peace our souls abide,

While every nation, every shore,

Trembles, and dreads the swelling tide.

There is a stream, whose gentle flow

Supplies the city of our God;

Life, love, and joy still gliding through,

And wat'ring our divine abode.

That sacred stream, thine holy word,

That all our raging fear controls:

Sweet peace thy promises afford,

And give new strength to fainting souls.

Zion enjoys her Monarch's love,

Secure against a threat'ning hour;

Nor can her firm foundations move,

Built on his truth, and armed with power.

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