O Lord, in me there li­eth naught
But to Thy search re­veal­èd lies;
For when I sit Thou mark­est it,
No less Thou not­est when I rise;
Yea, clos­est clo­set of my thought
Hath op­en win­dows to Thine eyes.

Thou walk­est with me when I walk;
When to my bed for rest I go,
I find Thee there, and ev­ery­where;
Not young­est thought in me doth grow,
No, not one word I cast to talk,
But, yet un­ut­tered, Thou dost know.

If forth I march, Thou go­est before,
If back I turn, Thou com’st be­hind;
So forth nor back Thy guard I lack;
Nay, on me too Thy hand I find;
Well I Thy wis­dom may adore,
But ne­ver reach with earth­ly mind.

To shun Thy no­tice, leave Thine eye,
O whi­ther might I take my way?
To star­ry sphere? Thy throne is there:
To dead men’s un­de­light­some stay?
There is Thy walk, and there to lie
Unknown, in vain I should as­say.

O sun, whom light nor flight can match!
Suppose thy ligh­tful, flight­ful wings
Thou lend to me, and I could flee
As far as thee the ev­en­ing brings;
E’en led to west He would me catch,
Nor should I lurk with west­ern things.

Do thou thy best, O sec­ret night,
In sa­ble veil to co­ver me:
Thy sa­ble veil shall vain­ly fail.
With day un­masked my night shall be:
For night is day, and dark­ness light,
O Fa­ther of all lights, to Thee.