XLVIII. T. Carey

MAKE the great God thy fort, and dwell

In him by faith, and doe not care,

So shaded, for the fires of hell,

Or for the cuning fowler’s snare,

Or poison of th’ infected aire.

His plumes shall make a downy bed,

Where thou shalt rest; he shall display

His wings of truth ouer thy head,

Which, like a shield, shall driue away

The feares of night, the darts of day.

The winged plague that flies by night,

The murdering sword that kills by day,

Shall not thy quiet power affright,

Though on thy left and right hand thay

A thousand and ten thousand slay.

Onely thine eies shall see the fall

Of sinners; but because thy heart

Dwells with the Lord, not one of all

These ills, nor yet the plaguie dart,

Shall dare approach near where thou art.

His angells shall direct thy leggs,

And guard them in the stony streete:

On lions’ whelpes and adders’ eggs

Thy steps shall march; and if thou meete

With dragons, they shall kisse thy feete.

When thou art troubled, he will heare

And help thee; for thy loue embraced

And knew his name: therefore hee’ll reare

Thy honors high; and when thou hast

Enioyed them long, saue thee at last.