So, deep in my soul, the still prayer of devotion,
Unheard by the world, rises, silent, to Thee,
My God! silent, to Thee,—
Pure, warm, silent, to Thee.
2 As still to the star of its worship, though clouded,
The needle points faithfully o’er the dim sea,
So, dark when I roam, in this wintry world shrouded,
The hope of my spirit turns, trembling, to Thee,
My God! trembling, to Thee,—
True, sure, trembling, to Thee.