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.