And how shall I call upon my God—my God and my Lord? For when I call on him I ask him to come into me. And what place is there in me into which my God can come? How could God, the God who made both heaven and earth, come into me? Is there anything in me, Lord my God, that can contain you? Do even the heaven and the earth, which you have made, and in which you made me, contain you? Is it possible that, since without you nothing that exists would exist, you made it so that whatever exists has some capacity to receive you? Why, then, do I ask you to come into me, since I also exist and could not exist if you were not in me? For I am not, after all, in hell—and yet you are there too,⁠a for "if I go down into hell, you are there." Therefore I would not exist—I would simply not be at all—unless I exist in you, from whom and by whom and in whom all things are. Even so, Lord; even so. Where do I call you to, when I am already in you? Or from where would you come into me? Where, beyond heaven and earth, could I go so that my God might come to me there—he who has said, "I fill heaven and earth"?