A safe stronghold our god is still, a trusty shield and weapon;
He’ll help us clear from all the ill that hath us now o’ertaken.
The ancient prince of ill hath ris'n with evil will;
Strong mail of craft and pow'r he weareth in this hour;
	On Earth is not his fellow.
With force of arms we nothing can, full soon were we down-ridden;
But for us fights the proper man, whom God himself hath bidden.
Ask ye, who is this same? Christ Jesus is his name,
The lord Sabaoth’s son; he, and no other one,
	Shall conquer in the battle.
And were this world all devils o’er, and watching to devour us,
We lay it not to heart so sore; not they can overpow'r us.
And let the prince of ill look grim as e’er he will,
He harms us not a whit; for why? His doom is writ;
	A word shall quickly slay him.
God’s word, for all their craft and force, one moment will not linger,
But, spite of them, shall have its course; ’tis written by his finger.
And though they take our house, life, honor, children, spouse,
Yet is their profit small; these things shall vanish all
	while God's domain remaineth!