I should like to speak with you, my God,
yet what else can I speak of but you?
Could anything exist
unless present with you eternally,
finding its true home
and most intimate explanation
in your mind and heart?
Isn’t all I ever say
really a statement about you?
And yet if sly and hesitant I try to speak of you,
you will still be hearing about me.
For what could I say about you
except that you are my God,
God of my beginning and end,
my joy and need,
God of my life?
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