Go, count the sands that form the earth,
Go, count the drops that make the sea;
Go, count the stars of heavenly birth,
And tell me what their number be;
And thou shalt know love's mystery.
No measurement hath yet been found,
No lines nor numbers, that can keep
The sum of its eternal round,
The plummet of its endless deep,
Or heights, to which its glories sweep.
Yes, measure love, when thou canst tell
The lands where seraphs have not trod,
The heights of heaven, the depths of hell,
And laid thy finite measuring-rod
On the infinitude of God.
