ncapable of it, but from Thee alone, the true
spring of all joy. If, therefore, Thou wert but a lumpish, frail, and
inanimate being, a mass without any virtue or power, a shadow of a
being, Thy vain fantastic nature would busy their vanity, and be a
proper object to entertain their mean and brutish thoughts. But because
Thou art too intimately within them, and they never at home, Thou art to
them an unknown God; for while they rise and wander abroad, the intimate
part of themselves is most remote from their sight. The order and beauty
Thou scatterest over the face of Thy creatures are like a glaring light
that hides Thee from them and dazzles their sore eyes. In fine, because
Thou art too elevated and too pure a truth to affect gross senses, men
who are become like beasts cannot conceive Thee, though man has daily
convincing instances of wisdom and virtue without the testimony of any
of his senses; for those virtues have not sound, colour, odour, taste,
figure, nor any sensible quality.

Why, then, O my God, do men call Thy existence, wisdom, and power more
in question than they do those other things most real and manifest, the
truth of which they suppose as certain, in all the serious affairs of
life, and which, nevertheless, as well as Thou, escape our feeble
senses? O misery! O dismal night that surrounds the children of Adam! O
monstrous stupidity! O confusion of the whole man! Man has eyes only to
see shadows, and truth appears a phantom to him. What is nothing is all;
and what is all is nothing to him. What do I behold in all nature? God.
God everywhere, and still God alone.

When I think, O Lord, that all being is in Thee, Thou exhaustest and
swallowest up, O Abyss of Truth, all my thoughts. I know not what
becomes of me. Whatever is not Thou disappears; and scarce so much of
myself remains wherewithal to find myself again. Who sees Thee not never
saw anything; and who is not sensible of Thee, never was sensible of
anything. He is as if he were not. His whole life is but a dream. Arise,
O Lord, arise, Let Thy enemies melt like wax and vanish like smoke
before Thy face. How unhappy is the impious soul who, far from Thee, is
without God, without hope, without eternal comfort! How happy he who
searches, sighs, and thirsts after Thee. But fully happy he on whom are
reflected the beams of Thy countenance, whose tears Thy hand has wiped
off, and whose desires Thy love has already completed.

When will that time be, O