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:

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—

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 day’s glo­ri­ous blaze.

We hear Thy voice, when thun­ders roll
Through the wide fields of air.
The waves ob­ey Thy dread con­trol;
Yet still Thou art not there.
Where shall I find Him, O my soul,
Who yet is ev­ery­where?

O! not in circ­ling depth or 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.