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