God; Not Gift

Gray clouds my heaven have covered o'er; My sea ebbs fast, no more to flow; Ghastly and dry, my desert shore Parched, bare, unsightly things doth show. 'Tis thou, Lord, cloudest up my sky; Stillest the heart-throb of my sea; Tellest the sad wind not to sigh, Yea, life itself to wait for thee! Lord, here I am, empty enough! My music but a soundless moan! Blind hope, of all my household stuff, Leaves me, blind hope, not quite alone! Shall hope too go, that I may trust Purely in thee, and spite of all? Then turn my very heart to dust- On thee, on thee, I yet will call. List! list! his wind among the pines Hark! hark! that rushing is his sea's! O Father, these are but thy signs!- For thee I hunger, not for these! Not joy itself, though pure and high- No gift will do instead of thee! Let but my spirit know thee nigh, And all the world may sleep for me!