To My Lord And Master

Imagination cannot rise above thee;
Near and afar I see thee, and I love thee;
My misery away from me I thrust it,
For thy perfection I behold, and trust it.

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

Death

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Children's Heaven.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

A Dream Song

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Second Sight.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

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I See Thee Not

Yes, Master, when thou comest thou shalt find
    A little faith on earth, if I am here!
Thou know'st how oft I turn to thee my mind.
    How sad I wait until thy face appear!

Hast thou not ploughed my thorny ground full sore,
    And from it gathered many stones and sherds?
Plough, plough and harrow till it needs no more--
    Then sow thy mustard-seed, and send thy birds.

I love thee, Lord; and if I yield to fears,
    Nor trust with triumph that pale doubt defies,
Remember, Lord, 'tis nigh two thousand years,
    And I have never seen thee with mine eyes!

And when I lift them from the wondrous tale,
    See, all about me hath so strange a show!
Is that thy river running down the vale?
    Is that thy wind that through the pines doth blow?
...

George MacDonald

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

0 Lord, How Happy!

From the German of Dessler.

O Lord, how happy is the time
    When in thy love I rest!
When from my weariness I climb
    Even to thy tender breast!
The night of sorrow endeth there--
    Thou art brighter than the sun;
And in thy pardon and thy care
    The heaven of heaven is won.

Let the world call herself my foe,
    Or let the world allure--
I care not for the world; I go
    To this dear friend and sure.
And when life's fiercest storms are sent
    Upon life's wildest sea,
My little bark is confident
    Because it holds by thee.

When the law threatens endless death
    Upon the dreadful hill,
Straightway from her consuming breath
    My soul goeth higher still--
Goeth to Jesus, wounded, slain,
    A...

George MacDonald

The Beloved Disciple

I.

One do I see and twelve; but second there
Methinks I know thee, thou beloved one;
Not from thy nobler port, for there are none
More quiet-featured: some there are who bear
Their message on their brows, while others wear
A look of large commission, nor will shun
The fiery trial, so their work is done;
But thou hast parted with thine eyes in prayer--
Unearthly are they both; and so thy lips
Seem like the porches of the spirit land;
For thou hast laid a mighty treasure by
Unlocked by Him in Nature, and thine eye
Burns with a vision and apocalypse
Thy own sweet soul can hardly understand.

II.

A Boanerges too! Upon my heart
It lay a heavy hour: features like thine
Should glow with other message than the shine
Of the earth-burrowi...

George MacDonald

Longing.

Away from the city's herds!
    Away from the noisy street!
Away from the storm of words,
    Where hateful and hating meet!

Away from the vapour grey,
    That like a boding of ill
Is blotting the morning gay,
    And gathers and darkens still!

Away from the stupid book!
    For, like the fog's weary rest,
With anger dull it fills each nook
    Of my aching and misty breast.

Over some shining shore,
    There hangeth a space of blue;
A parting 'mid thin clouds hoar
    Where the sunlight is falling through.

The glad waves are kissing the shore
    Rejoice, and tell it for ever;
The boat glides on, while its oar
    Is flashing out of the river.

Oh to be there with thee!
    Thou and I only, my love!
...

George MacDonald

To My God

Oh how oft I wake and find
    I have been forgetting thee!
I am never from thy mind:
    Thou it is that wakest me.

George MacDonald