O Thou Who
art my souls comfort in the season of sorrow,
O Thou Who
art my spirit’s treasurer in the bitterness of death!
That which
the imagination hath not conceived,
that which
the understanding hath not seen
Visiteth my
soul from Thee; hence in worship I turn toward thee.
By Thy Grace
I keep fixed on eternity my amorous gaze,
Except, O
King, the pomp that parish leads me astray.
The favor of
him who brings glad tidings of Thee.
Even without
Thy summons, is sweeter in mine ear than songs.
If the
never-ceasing Bounty should offer kingdoms,
If the Hidden
Treasurer should set before me all that is,
I would bow
down with my soul, I would lay my face in the dust,
I would cry,
“Of all these the of such an One for me.”
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