art to them an unknown God; for while they rove and wander abroad, the intimate part of themselves is most remote from their sight.  The order and beauty Thou scatterest over the face of Thy creatures are like a glaring light that hides Thee from and dazzles their sore eyes.  Thus the very light that should light them strikes them blind; and the rays of the sun themselves hinder them to see it.  In fine, because Thou art too elevated and too pure a truth to affect gross senses, men who are become like beasts cannot conceive Thee, though man has daily convincing instances of wisdom and virtue without the testimony of any of his senses; for those virtues have neither sound, colour, odour, taste, figure, nor any sensible quality.  Why then, O my God, do men call Thy existence, wisdom, and power more in question than they do those other things most real and manifest, the truth of which they suppose as certain, in all the serious affairs of life, and which nevertheless, as well as Thou, escape our feeble senses?  O misery!  O dismal night that surrounds the children of Adam!  O monstrous stupidity!  O confusion of the whole man!  Man has eyes only to see shadows, and truth appears a phantom to him.  What is nothing, is all; and what is all, is nothing to him.  What do I behold in all Nature?  God.  God everywhere, and still God alone.  When I think, O Lord, that all being is in Thee, Thou exhaustest and swallowest up, O Abyss of Truth, all my thoughts.  I know not what becomes of me.  Whatever is not Thou, disappears; and scarce so much of myself remains wherewithal to find myself again.  Who sees Thee not, never saw anything; and who is not sensible of Thee, never was sensible of anything.  He is as if he were not.  His whole life is but a dream.  Arise, O Lord, arise.  Let Thy enemies melt like wax and vanish like smoke before Thy face.  How unhappy is the impious soul who, far from Thee, is without God, without hope, without eternal comfort!  How happy he who searches, sighs, and thirsts after Thee!  But fully happy he on whom are reflected the beams of Thy countenance, whose tears Thy hand has wiped off, and whose desires Thy love has already completed.  When will that time be, O Lord?  O Fair Day, without either cloud or end, of which Thyself shalt be the sun, and wherein Thou shalt run through my soul like a torrent of delight?  Upon this pleasing hope my bones shiver, and cry out:—­“Who is like Thee, O Lord?  My heart melts and my flesh faints, O God of my soul, and my eternal wealth.”

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