Without that light what light remains in me?
Thou art my life, my way, my light; in thee
I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.

Thou art my life; if thou but turn away,
My life's a thousand deaths: thou art my way;
Without thee, LORD, I travel not, but stray.

My light thou art; without thy glorious sight, Mine eyes are darken'd with perpetual night. My GOD, thou art my way, my life, my light.

Thou art my way; I wander, if thou fly :
Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I?
Thou art my life; if thou withdraw, I die.

Mine eyes are blind and dark, I cannot see ;
To whom, or whither should my darkness flee,
But to the light? and who's that light but thee?

My path is lost, my wand'ring steps do stray;
I cannot safely go, nor safely stay ;

Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?

O, I am dead: to whom shall I, poor I,
Repair? to whom shall my sad ashes fly
For life? and where is life but in thine eye?

And yet thou turn'st away thy face, and fly'st me; And yet I sue for grace, and thou deny'st me? Speak, art thou angry, LORD, or only try'st me?

Unscreen those 'heavenly lamps, or tell me why Thou shad'st thy face? perhaps thou think'st no eye Can view those flames, and not drop down and die.

If that be all, shine forth and draw thee nigher; Let me behold and die, for my desire

Is, phoenixlike, to perish in that fire.

Death-conquer'd Laz'rus was redeem'd by thee; If I am dead, LORD, set death's pris'ner free; Am I more spent, or stink I worse than he?

If my puff'd life be out, give leave to tine
My shameless snuff at that bright lamp of thine;
O what's thy light the less for lighting mine?

If I have lost my path, great Shepherd, say,
Shall I still wander in a doubtful way?
LORD, shall a lamb of Israel's sheepfold stray?

Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye;
The dead man's life: on thee my hopes rely;
If thou remove, I err, I grope, I die.

Disclose thy sunbeams, close thy wings, and stay;
See, see how I am blind and dead, and stray,
O thou that art my light, my life, my way.

S. AUGUST. Soliloq. Cap. i.

Why dost thou hide thy face? happily thou wilt say, None can see thy face and live: Ah, LORD, let me die, that I may see thee; let me see thee, that I may die: I would not live, but die; that I may see Christ, I desire death; that I may live with Christ, I despise life.

ANSELM. Med. Cap. v.

O excellent hiding, which is become my perfection! My GOD, thou hidest thy treasure, to kindle my desire! thou hidest thy pearl, to inflame the seeker; thou delayest to give, that thou mayest teach me to importune; seemest not to hear, to make me persevere.

EPIG. 7.

If Heav'n's all-quick'ning eyes vouchsafe to shine Upon our souls, we slight; if not, we whine: Our equinoctial hearts can never lie

Secure beneath the tropics of that eye.

Oh that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night.

OH that mine eyes were springs, and could trans

form

Their drops to seas; my sighs into a storm

Of zeal, and sacred violence, wherein

This lab'ring vessel, laden with her sin,

Might suffer sudden shipwreck, and be split

Upon that rock, where my drench'd soul may sit, O'erwhelm'd with plenteous passion: Oh, and

there

Drop, drop, into an everlasting tear!

Ah me! that ev'ry sliding vein, that wanders Through this vast isle, did work her wild meanders In brackish tears instead of blood, and swell This flesh with holy dropsies, from whose well, Made warm with sighs, may fume my wasting breath,

Whilst I dissolve in streams, and reek to death! These narrow sluices of my dribbling eyes

Are much too strait for those quick springs that rise,

And hourly fill my temples to the top;
I cannot shed for every sin a drop;

Great Builder of mankind, why hast thou sent
Such swelling floods, and made so small a vent?
O that this flesh had been compos'd of snow,
Instead of earth; and bones of ice; that so,
Feeling the fervour of my sin, and loathing
The fire I feel, I might have thaw'd to nothing!
O thou that didst, with hopeful joy, entomb
Me thrice three moons in thy laborious womb,
And then, with joyful pain, brought'st forth a son,
What, worth thy labour, has thy labour done?
What was there, ah! what was there in my birth
That could deserve the easiest smile of mirth?
A man was born: alas! and what's a man?
A scuttle full of dust, a measur'd span