That Holy Thing.

They all were looking for a king
    To slay their foes, and lift them high:
Thou cam'st a little baby thing
    That made a woman cry.

O son of man, to right my lot
    Nought but thy presence can avail;
Yet on the road thy wheels are not,
    Nor on the sea thy sail!

My fancied ways why shouldst thou heed?
    Thou com'st down thine own secret stair:
Com'st down to answer all my need,
    Yea, every bygone prayer!

George MacDonald

George MacDonald (1824–1905) was a Scottish author, poet, and Christian minister best known for his fairy tales and fantasy novels. He was a pioneer in the fantasy genre, influencing notable writers such as C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. His major works include "Phantastes" and "Lilith," as well as numerous poems and other literary works. MacDonald's writings are characterized by their imaginative qualities and deep spiritual insight.

George MacDonald

The Father's Worshippers

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Burnt Offering.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

A Cry

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

A Gift.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Come To Me

Come to me, come to me, O my God;
    Come to me everywhere!
Let the trees mean thee, and the grassy sod,
    And the water and the air!

For thou art so far that I often doubt,
    As on every side I stare,
Searching within, and looking without,
    If thou canst be anywhere.

How did men find thee in days of old?
    How did they grow so sure?
They fought in thy name, they were glad and bold,
    They suffered, and kept themselves pure!

But now they say--neither above the sphere
    Nor down in the heart of man,
But solely in fancy, ambition, and fear
    The thought of thee began.

If only that perfect tale were true
    Which ages have not made old,
Which of endless many makes one anew,
    And simplicity manifold!
...

George MacDonald

An Old Story

    In the ancient house of ages,
        See, they cannot rest!
    With a hope, which awe assuages,
        Tremble all the blest.
    For the son and heir eternal,
        To be son yet more,
    Leaves his stately chair supernal
        For the earth's low floor;

    Leaves the room so high and old,
        Leaves the all-world hearth,
    Seeks the out-air, frosty-cold,
        Of the twilight earth--
    To be throned in newer glory
        In a mother's lap,
    Gather up our broken story,
        And right every hap.


II.

    There Earth's foster-baby lies,
        Sleep-dimmed all his graces,
    'Neath four stars of parents' eyes,
        And two heavens of faces!
    See! the cow and ass, dumb-staring,...

George MacDonald

Baby.

Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the everywhere into here.

Where did you get those eyes so blue?
Out of the sky as I came through.

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?
Some of the starry twinkles left in.

Where did you get that little tear?
I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high?
A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?
I saw something better than any one knows.

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?
Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

Where did you get this pearly ear?
God spoke, and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands?
Love made itself into bonds and bands.

Feet, wh...

George MacDonald

A Christmas Carol For 1862

THE YEAR OF THE TROUBLE IN LANCASHIRE.

    The skies are pale, the trees are stiff,
        The earth is dull and old;
    The frost is glittering as if
        The very sun were cold.
    And hunger fell is joined with frost,
        To make men thin and wan:
    Come, babe, from heaven, or we are lost;
        Be born, O child of man.

    The children cry, the women shake,
        The strong men stare about;
    They sleep when they should be awake,
        They wake ere night is out.
    For they have lost their heritage--
        No sweat is on their brow:
    Come, babe, and bring them work and wage;
        Be born, and save us now.

    Across the sea, beyond our sight,
        Roars on the fierce debate;
    The men go d...

George MacDonald

A Prayer For The Past

    All sights and sounds of day and year,
    All groups and forms, each leaf and gem,
    Are thine, O God, nor will I fear
    To talk to thee of them.

        Too great thy heart is to despise,
    Whose day girds centuries about;
    From things which we name small, thine eyes
    See great things looking out.

        Therefore the prayerful song I sing
    May come to thee in ordered words:
    Though lowly born, it needs not cling
    In terror to its chords.

        I think that nothing made is lost;
    That not a moon has ever shone,
    That not a cloud my eyes hath crossed
    But to my soul is gone.

        That all the lost years garnered lie
    In this thy casket, my dim soul;
    And thou wilt, once, th...

George MacDonald

No Sign

O Lord, if on the wind, at cool of day,
    I heard one whispered word of mighty grace;
If through the darkness, as in bed I lay,
    But once had come a hand upon my face;

If but one sign that might not be mistook
    Had ever been, since first thy face I sought,
I should not now be doubting o'er a book,
    But serving thee with burning heart and thought.

So dreams that heart. But to my heart I say,
    Turning my face to front the dark and wind:
Such signs had only barred anew his way
    Into thee, longing heart, thee, wildered mind.

They asked the very Way, where lies the way?
    The very Son, where is the Father's face?
How he could show himself, if not in clay,
    Who was the lord of spirit, form, and space!

My being, Lord, wil...

George MacDonald