The conies are a “feeble folk,”
But make “the rocks” their home:
Whatever dangers are abroad,
To them they cannot come.
The beasts go forth to seek their prey.
The lion leaves his lair,
But in the rocks all safely hid,
They cannot reach them there.
The thunders overhead may roll,
The lightenings flash and kill;
Within their rocky, refuge home,
The conies fear no ill.
Like them, I am a feeble one,
Yet hid in Christ the Rock;
I fear no roaming mighty foe,
No coming judgment’s shock.