What Man Is There Of You?

The homely words how often read!
    How seldom fully known!
"Which father of you, asked for bread,
    Would give his son a stone?"

How oft has bitter tear been shed,
    And heaved how many a groan,
Because thou wouldst not give for bread
    The thing that was a stone!

How oft the child thou wouldst have fed,
    Thy gift away has thrown!
He prayed, thou heard'st, and gav'st the bread:
    He cried, "It is a stone!"

Lord, if I ask in doubt and dread
    Lest I be left to moan,
Am I not he who, asked for bread,
    Would give his son a stone?

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

On The Source Of The Arve

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

To My Mother Earth

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Sonnet. About Jesus. XI.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Donkey In The Cart To The Horse In The Carriage

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

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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

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

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

The Giver.

To give a thing and take again
Is counted meanness among men;
To take away what once is given
Cannot then be the way of heaven!

But human hearts are crumbly stuff,
And never, never love enough,
Therefore God takes and, with a smile,
Puts our best things away a while.

Thereon some weep, some rave, some scorn,
Some wish they never had been born;
Some humble grow at last and still,
And then God gives them what they will.

George MacDonald

To Any Friend

    If I did seem to you no more
        Than to myself I seem,
    Not thus you would fling wide the door,
        And on the beggar beam!

    You would not don your radiant best,
        Or dole me more than half!
    Poor palmer I, no angel guest;
        A shaking reed my staff!

    At home, no rich fruit, hanging low,
        Have I for Love to pull;
    Only unripe things that must grow
        Till Autumn's maund be full!

    But I forsake my niggard leas,
        My orchard, too late hoar,
    And wander over lands and seas
        To find the Father's door.

    When I have reached the ancestral farm,
        Have clomb the steepy hill,
    And round me rests the Father's arm,
        Then think me what you will.

George MacDonald