ST. AUGUSTINE.
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.
For Thou hast chosen, in Thy grace,
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.