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459b Refuge


God is the refuge of His saints,
When storms of sharp distress invade;
Ere we can offer our complaints,
Behold Him present with His aid.

Loud may the troubled ocean roar
In sacred peace our souls abide;
While ev'ry nation, ev'ry shore,
Trembles, and dreads the swelling tide.

There is a stream, whose gentle flow,
Supplies the city of our God;
Life, love, and joy, still gliding through,
And wat'ring our divine abode.

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