One thing, alone, dear Lord, I dread--
To have a secret spot
That separates my soul from thee,
And yet to know it not.
Prayer was not meant for luxury,
Or selfish pastime sweet;
It is the prostrate creature's place
At his Creator's feet.
But if this waiting long hath come
A present from on high,
Teach me to find the hidden wealth
That in its depths may lie.
So in the darkness I can learn
To tremble and adore;
To sound my own vile nothingness,
And thus to love thee more.
--Frederick William Faber.