A song for the fifth of November. <br /> <br />Had not the Lord, may Isr'el say, <br />Had not the Lord maintained our side, <br />When men, to make our lives a prey, <br />Rose like the swelling of the tide; <br /> <br />The swelling tide had stopped our breath, <br />So fiercely did the waters roll, <br />We had been swallowed deep in death; <br />Proud waters had o'erwhelmed our soul. <br /> <br />We leap for joy, we shout and sing, <br />Who just escaped the fatal stroke; <br />So flies the bird with cheerful wing, <br />When once the fowler's snare is broke. <br /> <br />For ever blessed be the Lord, <br />Who broke the fowler's cursed snare, <br />Who saved us from the murd'ring sword, <br />And made our lives and souls his care. <br /> <br />Our help is in Jehovah's name, <br />Who formed the earth and built the skies: <br />He that upholds that wondrous frame <br />Guards his own church with watchful eyes.<br /><br />Isaac Watts<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/psalm-124/
