The Thank Offering.

My little child receives my gift,
    A simple piece of bread;
But to her mouth she doth not lift
    The love in bread conveyed,
Till on my lips, unerring, swift,
    The morsel first is laid.

This is her grace before her food,
    This her libation poured;
Uplift, like offering Aaron good
    Heaved up unto the Lord;
More riches in the thanks than could
    A thousand gifts afford!

My Father, every gift of thine,
    Teach me to lift to Thee;
Not else know I the love divine,
    With which it comes to me;
Not else the tenfold gift is mine
    Of taking thankfully.

Yea, all my being I would lift,
    An offering of me;
Then only truly mine the gift,
    When so received by Thee;
Then shall I go, rejoicing, swift,
    Through thine Eternity.

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

Translations. - The Hundred And Twenty-Eighth Psalm. (Luther's Song-Book.)

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Little Elfie

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

To The Life Eternal

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Lessons For A Child

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.

The Thank-Offering

    My Lily snatches not my gift;
        Glad is she to be fed,
    But to her mouth she will not lift
        The piece of broken bread,
    Till on my lips, unerring, swift,
        The morsel she has laid.

    This is her grace before her food,
        This her libation poured;
    Even thus his offering, Aaron good
        Heaved up to thank the Lord,
    When for the people all he stood,
        And with a cake adored.

    So, Father, every gift of thine
        I offer at thy knee;
    Else take I not the love divine
        With which it comes to me;
    Not else the offered grace is mine
        Of sharing life with thee.

    Yea, all my being I would bring,
        Yielding it utterly,
    Not yet a full-possesse...

George MacDonald

A Thanksgiving.

I Thank Thee, boundless Giver,
    That the thoughts Thou givest flow
In sounds that like a river
    All through the darkness go.
And though few should swell the pleasure,
    By sharing this my wine,
My heart will clasp its treasure,
    This secret gift of Thine.

My heart the joy inherits,
    And will oft be sung to rest;
And some wandering hoping spirits
    May listen and be blest.
For the sound may break the hours
    In a dark and gloomy mood,
As the wind breaks up the bowers
    Of the brooding sunless wood.

For every sound of gladness
    Is a prophet-wind that tells
Of a summer without sadness,
    And a love without farewells;
And a heart that hath no ailing,
    And an eye that is not dim,
And a faith that...

George MacDonald

Hunger

Father, I cry to thee for bread
    With hungred longing, eager prayer;
Thou hear'st, and givest me instead
    More hunger and a half-despair.

0 Lord, how long? My days decline,
    My youth is lapped in memories old;
I need not bread alone, but wine--
    See, cup and hand to thee I hold!

And yet thou givest: thanks, O Lord,
    That still my heart with hunger faints!
The day will come when at thy board
    I sit, forgetting all my plaints.

If rain must come and winds must blow,
    And I pore long o'er dim-seen chart,
Yet, Lord, let not the hunger go,
    And keep the faintness at my heart.

George MacDonald

Lessons For A Child.

I.

There breathes not a breath of the morning air,
But the spirit of Love is moving there;
Not a trembling leaf on the shadowy tree
Mingles with thousands in harmony;
But the Spirit of God doth make the sound,
And the thoughts of the insect that creepeth around.
And the sunshiny butterflies come and go,
Like beautiful thoughts moving to and fro;
And not a wave of their busy wings
Is unknown to the Spirit that moveth all things.
And the long-mantled moths, that sleep at noon,
And dance in the light of the mystic moon--
All have one being that loves them all;
Not a fly in the spider's web can fall,
But He cares for the spider, and cares for the fly;
And He cares for each little child's smile or sigh.
How it can be, I cannot know;
He is wiser than...

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

God; Not Gift

    Gray clouds my heaven have covered o'er;
        My sea ebbs fast, no more to flow;
    Ghastly and dry, my desert shore
        Parched, bare, unsightly things doth show.

    'Tis thou, Lord, cloudest up my sky;
        Stillest the heart-throb of my sea;
    Tellest the sad wind not to sigh,
        Yea, life itself to wait for thee!

    Lord, here I am, empty enough!
        My music but a soundless moan!
    Blind hope, of all my household stuff,
        Leaves me, blind hope, not quite alone!

    Shall hope too go, that I may trust
        Purely in thee, and spite of all?
    Then turn my very heart to dust--
        On thee, on thee, I yet will call.

    List! list! his wind among the pines
        Hark! hark! that rushi...

George MacDonald