I LIFT my eyes, but I cannot see;
I stretch my arms and I cry to Thee,—
And still the darkness covers me.
Where art Thou? In the chill obscure
I wander lonely, and endure
A yearning only Thou canst cure!
Once—once, indeed, in every face
I seemed thy lineaments to trace
And looked in all to find thy grace:
I thought the thrush—sweet worshiper!—
From the minaret of the balsam-fir
Hymned forth thy praise, my soul to stir;
I thought the early roses came
To lisp in fragrant breaths thy name,
And teach my heart to do the same;
I thought the stars thy candles, Lord!—
I thought the skylark as he soared
Rose to thy throne and Thee adored!
But now a labyrinth I wind,
And needing more thy hand to find,
Grope, darkling, Lord!—for I am blind!
Ah, bridge for me the awful vast,
That I may find Thee at the last!—
Then draw me close, and hold me fast!