Conceal us from th' oppressor's view;
Still shall their solemn echoes bear
To thy high courts our praise and prayer.
Not for ourselves (though sore dismay'd
Like hunted doves) we pray alone;
A bleeding people asks thy aid,
A ruin'd church, a prostrate throne,
A land become by woes and crimes,
A beacon to surrounding climes.
Oh, by the sacred ransom paid