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, heavy-shod,
    Come to father, yours and mine, I pray;
    Little ones, I pray you, come to God!

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

To The Clouds.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Granny Canty.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Sympathy

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

A Year Song.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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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

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

I Would I Were A Child

    I would I were a child,
    That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father!
    And follow thee with running feet, or rather
        Be led through dark and wild!

        How I would hold thy hand,
    My glad eyes often to thy glory lifting!
    Should darkness 'twixt thy face and mine come drifting,
        My heart would but expand.

        If an ill thing came near,
    I would but creep within thy mantle's folding,
    Shut my eyes close, thy hand yet faster holding,
        And soon forget my fear.

        O soul, O soul, rejoice!
    Thou art God's child indeed, for all thy sinning;
    A poor weak child, yet his, and worth the winning
        With saviour eyes and voice.

        Who spake the words? Didst Thou?
    Th...

George MacDonald

I Would I Were A Child.

    I would I were a child,
That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father!
And follow Thee with running feet, or rather
    Be led thus through the wild.

    How I would hold thy hand!
My glad eyes often to thy glory lifting,
Which casts all beauteous shadows, ever shifting,
    Over this sea and land.

    If a dark thing came near,
I would but creep within thy mantle's folding,
Shut my eyes close, thy hand yet faster holding,
    And so forget my fear.

    O soul, O soul, rejoice!
Thou art God's child indeed, for all thy sinning;
A trembling child, yet his, and worth the winning
    With gentle eyes and voice.

    The words like echoes flow.
They are too good; mine I can call them never;
Such water drinking once, I should ...

George MacDonald

The Diary Of An Old Soul. - November

        1.

        THOU art of this world, Christ. Thou know'st it all;
        Thou know'st our evens, our morns, our red and gray;
        How moons, and hearts, and seasons rise and fall;
        How we grow weary plodding on the way;
        Of future joy how present pain bereaves,
        Rounding us with a dark of mere decay,
        Tossed with a drift Of summer-fallen leaves.

        2.

        Thou knowest all our weeping, fainting, striving;
        Thou know'st how very hard it is to be;
        How hard to rouse faint will not yet reviving;
        To do the pure thing, trusting all to thee;
        To hold thou art there, for all no face we see;
        How hard to think, through cold and dark and dearth,
        That thou art nearer ...

George MacDonald

The Diary Of An Old Soul. - August.

        1.

        SO shall abundant entrance me be given
        Into the truth, my life's inheritance.
        Lo! as the sun shoots straight from out his tomb,
        God-floated, casting round a lordly glance
        Into the corners of his endless room,
        So, through the rent which thou, O Christ, hast riven,
        I enter liberty's divine expanse.

        2.

        It will be so--ah, so it is not now!
        Who seeks thee for a little lazy peace,
        Then, like a man all weary of the plough,
        That leaves it standing in the furrow's crease,
        Turns from thy presence for a foolish while,
        Till comes again the rasp of unrest's file,
        From liberty is distant many a mile.

        3.

George MacDonald