A Life Lost From its Father-Life!

“My soul leans toward him; stretches forth its arms,

  And waits expectant. Speak to me, my God;

  And let me know the living Father cares

  For me, even me; for this one of his children. —

  Hast thou no word for me? I am thy thought.

  God, let thy mighty heart beat into mine,

  And let mine answer as a pulse to thine.

  See, I am low; yea, very low; but thou

  Art high, and thou canst lift me up to thee.

  I am a child, a fool before thee, God;

  But thou hast made my weakness as my strength.

  I am an emptiness for thee to fill;

  My soul, a cavern for thy sea. I lie

  Diffused, abandoning myself to thee….

 — I will look up, if life should fail in looking.

  Ah me! A stream cut from my parent-spring!

  Ah me! A life lost from its father-life!”

— George MacDonald, Within and Without

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Lead Me to Him

“My friend, if one should tell a homeless boy,

  ”There is your father’s house: go in and rest;”

  Through every open room the child would pass,

  Timidly looking for the friendly eye;

  Fearing to touch, scarce daring even to wonder

  At what he saw, until he found his sire;

  But gathered to his bosom, straight he is

  The heir of all; he knows it ‘mid his tears.

  And so with me: not having seen Him yet,

  The light rests on me with a heaviness;

  All beauty wears to me a doubtful look;

  A voice is in the wind I do not know;

  A meaning on the face of the high hills

  Whose utterance I cannot comprehend.

  A something is behind them: that is God.

  These are his words, I doubt not, language strange;

  These are the expressions of his shining thoughts;

  And he is present, but I find him not.

  I have not yet been held close to his heart.

  Once in his inner room, and by his eyes

  Acknowledged, I shall find my home in these,

  ’Mid sights familiar as a mother’s smiles,

  And sounds that never lose love’s mystery.

  Then they will comfort me. Lead me to Him.”

— George MacDonald

Thou Art Making Me

But thou art making me, I thank thee, sire.

What thou hast done and doest thou know’st well,

And I will help thee:—gently in thy fire

I will lie burning; on thy potter’s-wheel

I will whirl patient, though my brain should reel;

Thy grace shall be enough the grief to quell,

And growing strength perfect through weakness dire.

—George MacDonald