Thou little Book! what depths divine
Of Life, and Truth, and Love,
Mark all thy pages, fill each line,
And lift the thought above
Earth's sordid things, its emptiness.
Its tumult, sin and strife,
Its pain and woe—deceitfulness,
To the real things of Life.
O Key to golden treasures
Of Wisdom. Truth, and Love!
The revelations of thy grace
Come surely from above;
From infinite Intelligence,
Which fills unbounded space,
And guides all hungering pilgrims
To the longed for, secret place.
