I.

EYOND, 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.

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?

3.

O, not in circling depth nor height,
But in the conscious breast,

Present to faith, though veiled from sight,

There doth his spirit rest.

O, come, thou Presence infinite,

And make thy creature blest.

JOSIAH CONDER, 1789-1855.