The Word Of God

Where the bud has never blown
    Who for scent is debtor?
Where the spirit rests unknown
    Fatal is the letter.

In thee, Jesus, Godhead-stored,
    All things we inherit,
For thou art the very Word
    And the very Spirit!

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

Love Is Home

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Antiphon

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

An Old Sermon With A New Text

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Translations. - The Lord's Prayer, Briefly And Plainly Set Forth, And Turned Into Metre. (Luther's Song-Book.)

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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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

De Profundis

When I am dead unto myself, and let,
O Father, thee live on in me,
Contented to do nought but pay my debt,
And leave the house to thee,

Then shall I be thy ransomed--from the cark
Of living, from the strain for breath,
From tossing in my coffin strait and dark,
At hourly strife with death!

Have mercy! in my coffin! and awake!
A buried temple of the Lord!
Grow, Temple, grow! Heart, from thy cerements break!
Stream out, O living Sword!

When I am with thee as thou art with me,
Life will be self-forgetting power;
Love, ever conscious, buoyant, clear, and free,
Will flame in darkest hour.

Where now I sit alone, unmoving, calm,
With windows open to thy wind,
Shall I not know thee in the radiant psalm
Soaring from heart and mind...

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

The Lost Soul

    Look! look there!
Send your eyes across the gray
By my finger-point away
Through the vaporous, fumy air.
Beyond the air, you see the dark?
Beyond the dark, the dawning day?
On its horizon, pray you, mark
Something like a ruined heap
Of worlds half-uncreated, that go back:
Down all the grades through which they rose
Up to harmonious life and law's repose,
Back, slow, to the awful deep
Of nothingness, mere being's lack:
On its surface, lone and bare,
Shapeless as a dumb despair,
Formless, nameless, something lies:
Can the vision in your eyes
Its idea recognize?

    'Tis a poor lost soul, alack!--
Half he lived some ages back;
But, with hardly opened eyes,
Thinking him already wise,
Down he sat and wrote a book;
Drew h...

George MacDonald

O Wind Of God.

O wind of God, that blowest in the mind,
    Blow, blow and wake the gentle spring in me;
Blow, swifter blow, a strong warm summer wind,
    Till all the flowers with eyes come out to see;
    Blow till the fruit hangs red on every tree,
And our high-soaring song-larks meet thy dove--
High the imperfect soars, descends the perfect love!

Blow not the less though winter cometh then;
    Blow, wind of God, blow hither changes keen;
Let the spring creep into the ground again,
    The flowers close all their eyes and not be seen:
    All lives in thee that ever once hath been!
Blow, fill my upper air with icy storms;
Breathe cold, O wind of God, and kill my cankerworms.

George MacDonald

The Temple Of God

    In the desert by the bush,
    Moses to his heart said Hush.

    David on his bed did pray;
    God all night went not away.

    From his heap of ashes foul
    Job to God did lift his soul,

    God came down to see him there,
    And to answer all his prayer.

    On a dark hill, in the wind,
    Jesus did his father find,

    But while he on earth did fare,
    Every spot was place of prayer;

    And where man is any day,
    God can not be far away.

    But the place he loveth best,
    Place where he himself can rest,

    Where alone he prayer doth seek,
    Is the spirit of the meek.

    To the humble God doth come;
    In his heart he makes his home.

George MacDonald