The still small voice of conscience, drowned now by your fear.
All outward sense discard; all thought, reflection flee;
And straight you’ll hear, within, God’s voice: ‘Come unto Me.’
So long as with chitchat you keep yourselves awake,
Communion with the angels you in sleep forsake.
Our words and acts make up our outward habitudes;
Our inward man’s our converse with infinitudes.
Our senses barren are; they come of barren soil;
Our soul, like Jesus, walks the sea without turmoil.260
Our outer man’s a barren wilderness, I ween;