More Help

My God, it troubles me I am not better.

More help, I pray, still more. Thy perfect debtor

I shall be when thy perfect child I am grown.

My Father, help me—am I not thine own?

Lo, other lords have had dominion o’er me,

But now thy will alone I set before me:

Thy own heart’s life—Lord, thou wilt not abhor me! — George MacDonald

In honour of Hal Owen

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Heir of Earth and Heaven

With thee on board, each sailor is a king

Nor I mere captain of my vessel then,

But heir of earth and heaven, eternal child;

Daring all truth, nor fearing anything;

Mighty in love, the servant of all men;

Resenting nothing, taking rage and blare

Into the Godlike silence of a loving care.

I cannot see, my God, a reason why

From morn to night I go not gladsome free;

For, if thou art what my soul thinketh thee,

There is no burden but should lightly lie,

No duty but a joy at heart must be:

Love’s perfect will can be nor sore nor small,

For God is light—in him no darkness is at all.

Tis something thus to think, and half to trust—

But, ah! my very heart, God-born, should lie

Spread to the light, clean, clear of mire and rust,

And like a sponge drink the divine sunbeams.

What resolution then, strong, swift, and high!

What pure devotion, or to live or die!

And in my sleep, what true, what perfect dreams!

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

This material may be protected by copyright.

I Must Be Pure

Keep me from wrath, let it seem ever so right:

My wrath will never work thy righteousness.

Up, up the hill, to the whiter than snow-shine,

Help me to climb, and dwell in pardon’s light.

I must be pure as thou, or ever less

Than thy design of me—therefore incline

My heart to take men’s wrongs as thou tak’st mine.

Lord, in thy spirit’s hurricane, I pray,

Strip my soul naked—dress it then thy way.

Change for me all my rags to cloth of gold.

Who would not poverty for riches yield?

A hovel sell to buy a treasure-field?

Who would a mess of porridge careful hold

Against the universe’s birthright old?

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

My Home

I will not shift my ground like Moab’s king,

But from this spot whereon I stand, I pray—

From this same barren rock to thee I say,

“Lord, in my commonness, in this very thing

That haunts my soul with folly—through the clay

Of this my pitcher, see the lamp’s dim flake;

And hear the blow that would the pitcher break.

Be thou the well by which I lie and rest;

Be thou my tree of life, my garden ground;

Be thou my home, my fire, my chamber blest,

My book of wisdom, loved of all the best;

Oh, be my friend, each day still newer found,

As the eternal days and nights go round!

Nay, nay—thou art my God, in whom all loves are bound!”

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

This material may be protected by copyright.

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

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