the one hundred thirty-ninth psalm.
51
That eye, whose light would pierce my inmost soul?And should I make my bed where spirits darkDwell in the silence of the under world,There, too, Thine eye would see my face, and thereThe glance of Thy displeasure would upbraidThe heartless, cold ingratitude of oneWho gave Thee not devotion's fervent prayer,Rich incense rising from a grateful heart,—A heart which glowed with an immortal flame,A temple meet for Thee.
Or should I seek,Upon the wings of morn, the ocean depths,Behold, Thy piercing glance looks there,—a glanceUndimmed by the destructive flight of time:Thy hand would guide me through its mazy depths.Should I desire the shielding veil of night,Thine eye could penetrate its shadowy folds.All, all is clear to Thee. Is not the nightThe same as day to thy unclouded eye?
Let me not flee thy presence. Let me seekNearer and dearer intercourse with HimWhose word created me. Great are Thy works,And in the fulness of Thy boundless power,Thou raisedst me from dust. Upon my soulThine own immortal image didst Thou stamp,And give me power to fit that soul to dwellForever in Thy sight.
Precious to me, O God!The gracious promises Thy word reveals;Precious the hope of everlasting life,
