O Thou Who art my souls comfort in the season of sorrow,
O Thou Who art my spirit’s treasurer in the bitterness of death!
That which the imagination hath not conceived,
that which the understanding hath not seen
Visiteth my soul from Thee; hence in worship I turn toward thee.
By Thy Grace I keep fixed on eternity my amorous gaze,
Except, O King, the pomp that parish leads me astray.
The favor of him who brings glad tidings of Thee.
Even without Thy summons, is sweeter in mine ear than songs.
If the never-ceasing Bounty should offer kingdoms,
If the Hidden Treasurer should set before me all that is,
I would bow down with my soul, I would lay my face in the dust,
I would cry, “Of all these the of such an One for me.”