How little can the Saints conceive,
Of Love that’s infinite;
In part they know, in part believe,
But yet want fuller Sight.
Our Eye is weak, our Object bright,
Alas! Such Babes are we;
That can’t yet bear Love’s dazzling Light,
Not its full Glory see.
Transporting Glances now and then,
The Eye of Faith takes in;
But Love’s too bright for mortal Men,
And still remains unseen.
The Saints, indeed, are Vessels made,
To hold eternal Love;
But yet, while here, we scanty are,
Not like the Saints above.
They are enlarg’d, they are compleat,
They see, while we believe;
But Love is so immensely great,
No Finite can conceive!
They in the Light of Vision see,
And still in Raptures praise;
But yet, until Eternity,
There will be new Displays.
Because the Creature finite is,
And can’t at once take in,
The Fulness of Jehovah’s Bliss,
Where Heirs of Glory swim.
Thy Love, oh Lord! Our Souls adore,
Its past created Skill;
We long to be enlarged more,
And then to drink our fill.
Text: Anne Dutton, Hymns Composed on Several Subjects. With an Alphabetical Table. Affixed to Dutton’s A Narration of the Wonders of Grace in Verse (London: Printed for, and sold by the Author, in the year 1734), pp. 107-08.