Thou art my knowledge and my memory,
No less than my real, deeper life, my love.
I will not fool, degrade myself to trust
In less than that which maketh me say Me,
In less than that causing itself to be.
Then art within me, behind, beneath, above—
I will be thine because I may and must.
Thou art the truth, the life. Thou, Lord, wilt see
To every question that perplexes me.
I am thy being; and my dignity
Is written with my name down in thy book;
Thou wilt care for it. Never shall I think
Of anything that thou mightst overlook:—
In faith-born triumph at thy feet I sink.
Thou carest more for that which I call mine,
In same sort—better manner than I could,
Even if I knew creation’s ends divine,
Rousing in me this vague desire of good.
Thou art more to me than my desires’ whole brood;
Thou art the only person, and I cry
Unto the father I of this my I.
Thou who inspirest prayer, then bend’st thine ear;
It, crying with love’s grand respect to hear!
I cannot give myself to thee aright—
With the triumphant uttermost of gift;
That cannot be till I am full of light—
To perfect deed a perfect will must lift:—
Inspire, possess, compel me, first of every might.
– George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul