How near to me, my God, thou art!
Felt in the throbbing of my heart,
Nearer than my own thoughts to me:
Nothing is real, without Thee!

Thy perfect light makes morning fair,
Thy breath is freshness in the air;
The glory Thou of star and sun,
Thou Soul of souls, Thou Inmost One?

With feverish restlessness and pain
We strive to shut Thee out, in vain;
To darkened heart and rebel will
Thou art the one clear Dayspring still.

Eyes art Thou unto us, the blind:
We turn to Thee, ourselves to find;
We set ajar no door of prayer
But Thou art waiting entrance there.

Within me, — nearer far than near, —
Through every thought Thy voice I hear:
My whole life welcomes Thy control;
Immanuel! God within my soul!

Thou fillest my being's hidden springs,
Thou givest my wishes heavenward wings;
I live Thy life, I breathe Thy breath;
Nor part nor lot have I with death.