1 A safe stronghold our God is still, a trusty shield and weapon; he'll keep us clear from all the ill that hath us now o'ertaken. The ancient prince of hell hath risen with purpose fell; strong mail of craft and power he weareth in this hour; on earth is not his fellow. 2 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. 3 And were this world all devils o'er, and watching to devour us, we lay it not to heart so sore; they cannot overpower 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. 4 God's word, for all their craft and force, one moment will not linger, but, spite of hell, shall have its course; 'tis written by his finger. And though they take our life, goods, honour, children, wife, yet is their profit small; these things shall vanish all: the city of God remaineth.