The poem
O God, where does this tend-these struggling aims? What would I have? What is this 'sleep', which seems To bound all? can there be a 'waking' point Of crowning life? The soul would never rule- It would be first in all things-it would have Its utmost pleasure filled,-but that complete Commanding for commanding sickens it. The last point I can trace is, rest beneath Some better essence than itself-in weakness; This is 'myself'-not what I think should be And what is that I hunger for but God? My God, my God! let me for once look on thee As tho' nought else existed: we alone. And as creation crumbles, my soul's spark Expands till I can say, 'Even from myself I need thee, and I feel thee, and I love thee; I do not plead my rapture in thy works For love of thee-or that I feel as one Who cannot die-but there is that in me Which turns to thee, which loves, or which should love.'
Why have I girt myself with this hell-dress? Why have I laboured to put out my life? Is it not in my nature to adore, And e'en for all my reason do I not Feel him, and thank him, and pray to him-now? Can I forgo the trust that he loves me? Do I not feel a love which only ONE... O thou pale form, so dimly seen, deep-eyed, I have denied thee calmly-do I not Pant when I read of thy consummate deeds, And burn to see thy calm pure truths out-flash The brightest gleams of earth's philosophy? Do I not shake to hear aught question thee? If I am erring save me, madden me, Take from me powers and pleasures-let me die. Ages, so I see thee: I am knit round As with a charm, by sin and lust and pride, Yet tho' my wandering dreams have seen all shapes Of strange delight, oft have I stood by thee- Have I been keeping lonely watch with thee In the damp night by weeping Olivet, Or leaning on thy bosom, proudly less- Or dying with thee on the lonely cross- Or witnessing thy bursting from the tomb!