The house of my soul is small: too small for you to enter. Enlarge it. It is a ruin. But I ask you to repair it.

Yet all those things which you fill, you fill with your whole self.

We long to praise you, though we are burdened by our mortality. Though we are conscious of sin, we long to praise you.

But who can call upon you if they do not know you?

You are not scattered. Rather we are gathered.

For you have so made us that we long for you, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.

Is it then that your whole being is in everything, yet nothing can contain you wholly?

I would be nothing at all, my God, unless you were in me, or rather, I would not exist unless I were in you. For all that exists comes from you, comes through you, and is in you. So it is, Lord. So it is.

For, if we call for help and do not know you, could we not mistake some other for you? Yet maybe we should call to you so that we can know you.