The Father's Worshippers

'Tis we, not in thine arms, who weep and pray;
The children in thy bosom laugh and play.

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 Old Garden

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Born Of Water

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Hom. Il. V. 403.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

A Gift.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

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A Father To A Mother

    When God's own child came down to earth,
    High heaven was very glad;
    The angels sang for holy mirth;
    Not God himself was sad!

    Shall we, when ours goes homeward, fret?
    Come, Hope, and wait on Sorrow!
    The little one will not forget;
    It's only till to-morrow!

George MacDonald

Dejection

O Father, I am in the dark,
    My soul is heavy-bowed:
I send my prayer up like a lark,
    Up through my vapoury shroud,
                To find thee,
                And remind thee
I am thy child, and thou my father,
Though round me death itself should gather.

Lay thy loved hand upon my head,
    Let thy heart beat in mine;
One thought from thee, when all seems dead,
    Will make the darkness shine
                About me
                And throughout me!
And should again the dull night gather,
I'll cry again, Thou art my father.

George MacDonald

The Children's Heaven.

    The infant lies in blessed ease
        Upon his mother's breast;
    No storm, no dark, the baby sees
        Invade his heaven of rest.
    He nothing knows of change or death--
        Her face his holy skies;
    The air he breathes, his mother's breath;
        His stars, his mother's eyes!

    Yet half the soft winds wandering there
        Are sighs that come of fears;
    The dew slow falling through that air--
        It is the dew of tears;
    And ah, my child, thy heavenly home
        Hath storms as well as dew;
    Black clouds fill sometimes all its dome,
        And quench the starry blue!

    "My smile would win no smile again,
        If baby saw the things
    That ache across his mother's brain
        The whi...

George MacDonald

What The Lord Saith

    Trust my father, saith the eldest-born;
    I did trust him ere the earth began;
    Not to know him is to be forlorn;
    Not to love him is--not to be man.

    He that knows him loves him altogether;
    With my father I am so content
    That through all this dreary human weather
    I am working, waiting, confident.

    He is with me; I am not alone;
    Life is bliss, because I am his child;
    Down in Hades will I lay the stone
    Whence shall rise to Heaven his city piled.

    Hearken, brothers, pray you, to my story!
    Hear me, sister; hearken, child, to me:
    Our one father is a perfect glory;
    He is light, and there is none but he.

    Come then with me; I will lead the way;
    All of you, sore-hearted, heav...

George MacDonald

Sympathy

    Grief held me silent in my seat;
        I neither moved nor smiled:
    Joy held her silent at my feet,
        My shining lily-child.

    She raised her face and looked in mine;
        She deemed herself denied;
    The door was shut, there was no shine;
        Poor she was left outside!

    Once, twice, three times, with infant grace
        Her lips my name did mould;
    Her face was pulling at my face--
        She was but ten months old.

    I saw; the sight rebuked my sighs;
        It made me think--Does God
    Need help from his poor children's eyes
        To ease him of his load?

    Ah, if he did, how seldom then
        The Father would be glad!
    If comfort lay in the eyes of men,
        He little...

George MacDonald

To My Father.

I.

Take of the first fruits, Father, of thy care,
    Wrapped in the fresh leaves of my gratitude
    Late waked for early gifts ill understood;
Claiming in all my harvests rightful share,
Whether with song that mounts the joyful air
    I praise my God; or, in yet deeper mood,
    Sit dumb because I know a speechless good,
Needing no voice, but all the soul for prayer.
    Thou hast been faithful to my highest need;
And I, thy debtor, ever, evermore,
Shall never feel the grateful burden sore.
    Yet most I thank thee, not for any deed,
    But for the sense thy living self did breed
That fatherhood is at the great world's core.


II.

All childhood, reverence clothed thee, undefined,
    As for some being of another race;
    A...

George MacDonald