O Thou art not bound, thou art measureless,
The geography of space is but thy little stage,
To erect the unfolding mystery of thy play.
The wide vast world seems only a hermitage,
Thy mind, a thing of new light, knows, omniscient.
We know not if thou knowest all, or perhaps
Our muse and queries all exist shaped only by Thee!
Through a brief spectrum of seeing light,
By trickles from an immensity of sound,
And our mind like paper incapable of holding shape,
Thus we see Thee, our miniscule aspiring,
Through woe and dream to near thy immensity.
But O Sun, perennially thou dost pour thy light,
Into our insufficient pores sparse and shallow,
To attain by daily routine a little thy shade.
The dark clouds of human thoughts flee,
Upon mind’s sky criss cross thy lightnings,
And our tongues possessed by new speech.
We shed the crusted human shell now,
Only remains thought of Thee and Thy will.
We grow now Thine mind-born sons,
To force open future’s doors by our acts,
Directed by Thee through our lives Thy pen.