84
C. M. 6 lines.
Seeing him who is invisible.
Beyond, beyond that boundless sea,
Above that dome of sky,
Further than thought itself can flee,
Thy dwelling is on high:
Yet dear the awful thought to me,
That thou, my God, art nigh!
2 Art nigh, and yet my laboring mind
Feels after thee in vain,
Thee in these works of power to find,
Or to thy seat attain.
Thy messenger the stormy wind;
Thy path, the trackless main:
3 These speak of thee with loud acclaim;
They thunder forth thy praise,
The glorious honor of thy name,
The wonders of thy ways:
But thou art not in tempest flame
Nor in the noontide blaze.
4 We hear thy voice when thunders roll
Through the wide fields of air;
The waves obey thy dread control;
But still, thou art not there:
Where shall I find him, O my soul!
Who yet is everywhere?
5 O! not in circling depth or hight,
But in the conscious breast,
Present to faith, though vailed from sight;
There doth his Spirit rest:
O, come, thou Presence infinite!
And make thy creature blest.
Conder.