O name, all oth­er names above,
What art Thou not to me?
Now I have learned to trust Thy love
And cast my care on Thee.

What is our be­ing but a cry,
A rest­less long­ing still,
Which Thou alone canst sa­tis­fy,
Alone Thy full­ness fill?

Thrice bless­èd be the ho­ly souls
That lead the way to Thee,
That burn upon the mar­tyr rolls
And lists of pro­phe­cy.

And sweet it is to tread the ground
O’er which their faith hath trod;
But sweet­er far, when Thou art found,
The soul’s own sense of God.

The thought of Thee all sor­row calms,
Our anx­ious burdens fall;
His cross­es turn to tri­umph palms
Who finds in God his all.