  O Thou my inmost life, my God! How blind the soul can be! Thou wert within, and I abroad, And there I searched for Thee. A stranger to my own poor heart, A stranger, Lord, to Thee, I sought Thee, from Thyself apart, Throughout immensity. In vain the weary, painful quest,— Still further did I stray From Thee, my being’s only rest,— Thyself the Truth, the Way. I found Thee not, O sovereign Good! Though seeking Thee alone; I found Thee not,—nor understood Thy grace, Thy love unknown. As all who seek Thee find, To make Thy dearest dwelling-place The lowly, loving mind. Close to the fountain of our tears Dost Thou set up Thy rest; And nearer than our doubts and fears Art Thou, the Heavenly Guest. O child of sorrow and of pain! Know this, where’er thou art,— Thy long and lonely quest is vain;— Return into thy heart. The Blessed Presence is enshrined Deep, deep within the breast;— Who seeks Thee there, O God, shall find The soul’s abiding rest.
|
|
