I have wandered like a sheep that’s lost, To find Thee out in every coast:  Without I have long seeking bin, been. Whilst thou, the while, abid’st within.  Through every broad street and strait lane Of this world’s city, but in vain, I have enquired.  The reason why?  I sought thee ill:  for how could I Find thee abroad, when thou, mean space, Hadst made within thy dwelling-place?

  I sent my messengers about,
  To try if they could find thee out;
  But all was to no purpose still,
  Because indeed they sought thee ill: 
  For how could they discover thee
  That saw not when thou entered’st me?

  Mine eyes could tell me?  If he were,
  Not coloured, sure he came not there. 
  If not by sound, my ears could say
  He doubtless did not pass my way. 
  My nose could nothing of him tell,
  Because my God he did not smell. 
  None such I relished, said my taste,
  And therefore me he never passed. 
  My feeling told me that none such
  There entered, for he none did touch. 
  Resolved by them how should I be,
  Since none of all these are in thee,

  In thee, my God?  Thou hast no hue
  That man’s frail optic sense can view;
  No sound the ear hears; odour none
  The smell attracts; all taste is gone
  At thy appearance; where doth fail
  A body, how can touch prevail? 
  What even the brute beasts comprehend—­
  To think thee such, I should offend.

  Yet when I seek my God, I enquire
  For light than sun and moon much higher,
  More clear and splendrous, ’bove all light
  Which the eye receives not, ’tis so bright. 
  I seek a voice beyond degree
  Of all melodious harmony: 
  The ear conceives it not; a smell
  Which doth all other scents excel: 
  No flower so sweet, no myrrh, no nard,
  Or aloes, with it compared;
  Of which the brain not sensible is. 
  I seek a sweetness—­such a bliss
  As hath all other sweets surpassed,
  And never palate yet could taste. 
  I seek that to contain and hold
  No touch can feel, no embrace enfold.

  So far this light the rays extends,
  As that no place it comprehends. 
  So deep this sound, that though it speak
  It cannot by a sense so weak
  Be entertained.  A redolent grace
  The air blows not from place to place. 
  A pleasant taste, of that delight
  It doth confound all appetite. 
  A strict embrace, not felt, yet leaves
  That virtue, where it takes it cleaves. 
  This light, this sound, this savouring grace,
  This tasteful sweet, this strict embrace,
  No place contains, no eye can see,
  My God is, and there’s none but he.