Lord, I can approach you only by means of my consciousness, but consciousness can only approach you as an object, which you are not.  I have no hope of experiencing you as I experience the world–directly, immediately–yet I want nothing more.  Indeed, so great is my hunger for you–or is this evidence of your hunger for me?–that I seem to see you in the black flower mourners make beside a grave I do not know, in the embers’ innards like a shining hive, in the bare abundance of a winter tree whose every limb is lit and fraught with snow.  Lord, Lord, how bright the abyss inside that “seem.”

From Christian Wiman’s My Bright Abyss, a beautiful, plunging book I’m crouching through