Safe in this Wartburg tower I stand
Where God hath led me by the hand,
And look down, with a heart at ease,
Over the pleasant neighborhoods,
Over the vast Thuringian Woods,
With flash of river, and gloom of trees,
With castles crowning the dizzy heights,
And farms and pastoral delights,
And the morning pouring everywhere
Its golden glory on the air. 
Safe, yes, safe am I here at last,
Safe from the overwhelming blast
Of the mouths of Hell, that followed me fast,
And the howling demons of despair
That hunted me like a beast to his lair.

  Of our own might we nothing can;
  We soon are unprotected: 
  There fighteth for us the right Man,
  Whom God himself elected. 
    Who is He; ye exclaim? 
    Christus is his name,
    Lord of Sabaoth,
    Very God in troth;
  The field He holds forever.

Nothing can vex the Devil more
Than the name of him whom we adore. 
Therefore doth it delight me best
To stand in the choir among the rest,
With the great organ trumpeting
Through its metallic tubes, and sing: 
Et verbum caro factum est! 
These words the devil cannot endure,
For he knoweth their meaning well! 
Him they trouble and repel,
Us they comfort and allure,
And happy it were, if our delight
Were as great as his affright!

Yea, music is the Prophet’s art;
Among the gifts that God hath sent,
One of the most magnificent! 
It calms the agitated heart;
Temptations, evil thoughts, and all
The passions that disturb the soul,
Are quelled by its divine control,
As the evil spirit fled from Saul,
And his distemper was allayed,
When David took his harp and played.

  This world may full of Devils be,
  All ready to devour us;
  Yet not so sore afraid are we,
  They shall not overpower us. 
    This World’s Prince, howe’er
    Fierce he may appear,
    He can harm us not,
    He is doomed, God wot! 
  One little word can slay him!

Incredible it seems to some
And to myself a mystery,
That such weak flesh and blood as we,
Armed with no other shield or sword,
Or other weapon than the Word,
Should combat and should overcome
A spirit powerful as he! 
He summons forth the Pope of Rome
With all his diabolic crew,
His shorn and shaven retinue
Of priests and children of the dark;
Kill! kill! they cry, the Heresiarch,
Who rouseth up all Christendom
Against us; and at one fell blow
Seeks the whole Church to overthrow! 
Not yet; my hour is not yet come.

Yesterday in an idle mood,
Hunting with others in the wood,
I did not pass the hours in vain,
For in the very heart of all
The joyous tumult raised around,
Shouting of men, and baying of hound,
And the bugle’s blithe and cheery call,
And echoes answering back again,