With a Dark Thing to Reason of the Light?

The worst power of an evil mood is this –

it makes the bastard self seem in the right,

Self, self the end, the goal of human bliss.

But if the Christ-self in us be the might

Of Saving God, why should I spend my force

With a dark thing to reason of the light –

Not push it rough aside, and hold obedient course?

~George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul, 02/02

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The First, the One

When I can no more stir my soul to move

And life is but the ashes of a fire;

When I can but remember that my heart

Once used to live and love, long and aspire-

Oh be thou then the first, the one thou art;

Be thou the calling, before all answering love,

And in me wake hope, fear, boundless desire.

— George MacDonald, The Diary of an Old Soul

Thy Presence

“I AM a little weary of my life—

Not thy life, blessed Father! Or the blood

Too slowly laves the coral shores of thought,

Or I am weary of weariness and strife.

Open my soul-gates to thy living flood;

I ask not larger heart-throbs, vigour-fraught,

I pray thy presence, with strong patience rife.”

~George MacDonald

Beth-el

Too eager I must not be to understand.

How should the work the master goes about

Fit the vague sketch my compasses have planned?

I am his house—for him to go in and out.

He builds me now—and if I cannot see

At any time what he is doing with me,

‘Tis that he makes the house for me too grand.

—George MacDonald

I May Not Fondle Failing

“Only no word of mine must ever foster

The self that in a brother’s bosom gnaws;

I may not fondle failing, nor the boaster

Encourage with the breath of my applause.

Weakness needs pity, sometimes love’s rebuke;

Strength only sympathy deserves and draws—

And grows by every faithful loving look.

Tis but as men draw nigh to thee, my Lord,

They can draw nigh each other and not hurt.

Who with the gospel of thy peace are girt,

The belt from which doth hang the Spirit’s sword,

Shall breathe on dead bones, and the bones shall live,

Sweet poison to the evil self shall give,

And, clean themselves, lift men clean from the mire abhorred.

Excerpt From

A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul

George MacDonald

https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/a-book-of-strife-in-the-form-of-the-diary-of-an-old-soul/id499797732?mt=11

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I Look to Thee

My God, I look to thee for tenderness

Such as I could not seek from any man,

Or in a human heart fancy or plan—

A something deepest prayer will not express:

Lord, with thy breath blow on my being’s fires,

Until, even to the soul with self-love wan,

I yield the primal love, that no return desires.

—George MacDonald, The Diary of an Old Soul