And were this world all devils o'er, 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 e'er he will, He harms us not a whit: For why? His doom is writ, One little word shall slay him. That 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, honor, children, wife, Yet is their profit small; These things shall vanish all.