But the impious lose
Thee only by losing themselves. Alas! Thy very gifts, which should
show them the hand from whence they flow, amuse them to such a
degree as to hinder them from perceiving it. They live by Thee, and
yet they live without thinking on Thee; or, rather, they die by the
Fountain of Life for want of quenching their drought in that
vivifying stream; for what greater death can there be than not to
know Thee, O Lord? They fall asleep in Thy soft and paternal bosom,
and, full of the deceitful dreams by which they are tossed in their
sleep, they are insensible of the powerful hand that supports them.
If Thou wert a barren, impotent, and inanimate body, like a flower
that fades away, a river that runs, a house that decays and falls to
ruin, a picture that is but a collection of colours to strike the
imagination, or a useless metal that glisters--they would perceive
Thee, and fondly ascribe to Thee the power of giving them some
pleasure, although in reality pleasure cannot proceed from inanimate
beings, which are themselves void and incapable of it, but only from
Thee alone, the true spring of all joy. If therefore Thou wert but
a lumpish, frail, and inanimate being, a mass without any virtue or
power, a shadow of a being, Thy vain fantastic nature would busy
their vanity, and be a proper object to entertain their mean and
brutish thoughts. But because Thou art too intimately within them,
and they never at home, Thou art to them an unknown God; for while
they rove and wander abroad, the intimate part of themselves is most
remote from their sight.
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