Wherefore hidest thou thy face, and holdest me for thy enemie? Job XIII. XXIV.

Why dost Thou shade Thy lovely face? O why
Does that eclipsing hand, so long, deny
The Sun-shine of Thy soule-enliv’ning eye?

Without that Light, what light remaines in me?
Thou art my Life, my Way, my Light; in Thee
I live, I move, and by Thy beames I see.

Thou art my Life; If Thou but turne away,
My life’s a thousand deaths: Thou art my Way;
Without Thee, Lord, I traveil not, but stray.

My Light Thou art; without Thy glorious sight,
Mine eyes are darkened with perpetuall night.
My God, Thou art my Way, my Life, my Light.

Thou art my Way; I wander, if Thou flie:
Thou art my Light; If hid, how blind am I?
Thou art my Life; If Thou withdraw, I die.

Mine eyes are blind and darke, I cannot see;
To whom, or whither should my darknesse flee,
But to the Light? And who’s that Light but Thee?

My path is lost; my wandring steps do stray;
I cannot safely go, nor safely stay;
Whom should I seek but Thee, my Path, my Way?

O, I am dead: To whom shall I, poore I,
Repaire? To whom shall my sad Ashes fly
But Life? And where is Life but in Thine Eye?

And yet Thou turn’st away Thy Face, and fly’st me;
And yet I sue for Grace, and Thou deny’st me;
Speake, art Thou angry, Lord, or onely try’st me?

Unskreene those heav’nly lamps, or tell me why
Thou shad’st Thy Face; Perhaps, Thou think’st, no eye
Can view those flames, and not drop downe and die.

If that be all, shine forth, and draw Thee nigher;
Let me behold and die; for my desire
Is Phoenix-like to perish in that Fire.

Death-conquer’d Laz’rus was redeem’d by Thee;
If I am dead, Lord set deaths prisner free;
Am I more spent, or stink I worse than he?

If my pufft light be out, give leave to tine
My shamelesse snuffe at that bright Lamp of Thine;
O what’s Thy Light the lesse for lighting mine?

If I have lost my Path, great Shepheard, say,
Shall I still wander in a doubtfull way?
Lord, shall a Lamb of Isr’els sheepfold stray?

Thou art the Pilgrims Path; the blind mans Eye;
The dead mans Life; on Thee my hopes rely;
If Thou remove, I erre; I grope; I die.

Disclose Thy Sun-beames; close Thy wings, and stay;
See see, how I am blind, and dead, and stray,
O Thou, that art my Light, my Life, my Way.

Francis Quarles (1592 – 1644), educated at Christ Church, Cambridge and student of law at Lincoln’s Inn, was cup-bearer to Princess Elizabeth, secretary to Archbishop James Ussher, and chronologer to the city of London. He became renowned for Biblical poetry, of which this poem is a typical sample (original spelling retained). His complete works were published in three volumes by A.B. Grosart (1880–81).

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