A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,
A Bulwark Never Failing;
Our Helper He Amid The Flood
Of Mortal Ills Prevailing.
For Still Our Ancient Foe
Doth Seek To Work Us Woe;
His Craft And Power Are Great,
And, Armed With Cruel Hate,
On Earth Is Not His Equal.

With Force Of Arms We Nothing Can,
Full Soon Were We Down Ridden;
But For Us Fights The Proper Man
Whom God Himself Has 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.

And Were This World All Devils Over,
And Watching To Devour Us,
We Lay It Not To Heart So Sore;
Not They Can Overpower Us.
And Let The Prince Of Ill
Look Grim As Ever He Will,
He Harms Us Not A Whit;
For Why? His Doom Is Writ;
A Word Shall Quickly Slay Him.

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.

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