William Henry Furness (1802–1896)

WHAT is this that stirs within,

Loving goodness, hating sin,

Always craving to be blest,

Finding here below no rest?

Nought that charms the ear or eye

Can its hunger satisfy;

Active, restless, it would pierce

Through the outward universe.

What is it? and whither? whence?

This unsleeping, secret sense,

Longing for its rest and food

In some hidden, untried good?

’T is the soul! Mysterious name!

Him it seeks from whom it came;

It would, Mighty God, like thee,

Holy, holy, holy be!