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!