Beyond, 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 Art nigh, and yet my laboring mind

Feels after thee in vain,

Thee in these works of power to find,

Or to thy seat attain.

Thy messenger the stormy wind;

Thy path, the trackless main:

3 These speak of thee with loud acclaim;

They thunder forth thy praise,

The glorious honor of thy name,

The wonders of thy ways:

But thou art not in tempest flame

Nor in the noontide blaze.

4 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?

5 O! not in circling depth or hight,

But in the conscious breast,

Present to faith, though vailed from sight;

There doth his Spirit rest:

O, come, thou Presence infinite!

And make thy creature blest.