O, Treasure!

Extinguish my eyes, I still can see you,

Close my ears, I can hear your footsteps fall,

And without feet I still can follow you,

And without voice I still can to you call.

Break off my arms, and I can embrace you,

Enfold you with my heart as with a hand.

Hold my heart, my brain will take fire of you

As flax ignites from a lit fire-brand—

And flame will sweep in a swift rushing flood

Through all the singing currents of my blood.

In the deep nights I dig for you, O Treasure!

To seek you over the wide world I roam,

For all abundance is but meager measure

Of your bright beauty which is yet to come.

Excerpt From

The Book of Hours

Rainer Maria Rilke

https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-book-of-hours/id980491166?mt=11

This material may be protected by copyright.

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Comprehend Thee

“All those who seek Thee tempt Thee,

And those who find would bind Thee

To gesture and to form.

But I would comprehend Thee

As the wide Earth unfolds Thee.

Thou growest with my maturity,

Thou Art in calm and storm.

I ask of Thee no vanity

To evidence and prove Thee.

Thou Wert in eons old.

Perform no miracles for me,

But justify Thy laws to me

Which, as the years pass by me.

All soundlessly unfold.”

Excerpt From

The Book of Hours

Rainer Maria Rilke

https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-book-of-hours/id980491166?mt=11

This material may be protected by copyright.

Evening Hymn

O God, whose daylight leadeth down

Into the sunless way,

Who with restoring sleep doest crown

The labour of the day!

What I have done, Lord, make it clean

With thy forgiveness dear;

That so today what might have been,

Tomorrow may appear.

And when my thought is all astray,

Yet think thou on in me;

That with the newborn innocent day

My soul rise fresh and free.

Nor let me wander all in vain

Through dreams that mock and flee;

But even in visions of the brain,

Go wandering toward thee.

—George MacDonald

Thou Knowest All

THOU art of this world, Christ. Thou know’st it all;
Thou know’st our evens, our morns, our red and gray;
How moons, and hearts, and seasons rise and fall;
How we grow weary plodding on the way;
Of future joy how present pain bereaves,
Rounding us with a dark of mere decay,
Tossed with a drift Of summer-fallen leaves.

Thou knowest all our weeping, fainting, striving;
Thou know’st how very hard it is to be;
How hard to rouse faint will not yet reviving;
To do the pure thing, trusting all to thee;
To hold thou art there, for all no face we see;
How hard to think, through cold and dark and dearth,
That thou art nearer now than when eye-seen on earth.

Have pity on us for the look of things,
When blank denial stares us in the face.
Although the serpent mask have lied before,
It fascinates the bird that darkling sings,
And numbs the little prayer-bird’s beating wings.
For how believe thee somewhere in blank space,
If through the darkness come no knocking to our door?

If we might sit until the darkness go,
Possess our souls in patience perhaps we might;
But there is always something to be done,
And no heart left to do it. To and fro
The dull thought surges, as the driven waves fight
In gulfy channels. Oh! victorious one,
Give strength to rise, go out, and meet thee in the night.

Wake, thou that sleepest; rise up from the dead,
And Christ will give thee light.” I do not know
What sleep is, what is death, or what is light;
But I am waked enough to feel a woe,
To rise and leave death. Stumbling through the night,
To my dim lattice, O calling Christ! I go,
And out into the dark look for thy star-crowned head.

– George MacDonald.

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

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

Because Thou Knowest

I cannot tell why this day I am ill;

But I am well because it is thy will—

Which is to make me pure and right like thee.

Not yet I need escape—’tis bearable

Because thou knowest. And when harder things

Shall rise and gather, and overshadow me,

I shall have comfort in thy strengthenings.

When My Heart Sinks

Help me, my Father, in whatever dismay,

Whatever terror in whatever shape,

To hold the faster by thy garment’s hem;

When my heart sinks, oh, lift it up, I pray;

Thy child should never fear though hell should gape,

Not blench though all the ills that men affray

Stood round him like the Roman round Jerusalem.
George MacDonald