What can there be so close as making and made?
Nought twinned can be so near; thou art more nigh
To me, my God, than is this thinking I
To that I mean when I by me is said;
Thou art more near me, than is my ready will
Near to my love, though both one place do fill;--
Yet, till we are one,--Ah me! the long until!
Then shall my heart behold thee everywhere.
The vision rises of a speechless thing,
A perfectness of bliss beyond compare!
A time when I nor breathe nor think nor move,
But I do breathe and think and feel thy love,
The soul of all the songs the saints do sing!--
And life dies out in bliss, to come again in prayer.
In the great glow of that great love, this death
Would melt away like a fantastic cloud;
I should no more shrink from it than from the breath
That makes in the frosty air a nimbus-shroud;
Thou, Love, hast conquered death, and I aloud
Should triumph over him, with thy saintly crowd,
That where the Lamb goes ever followeth.
-- From Diary of an Old Soul, George MacDonald, Stanzas for April 28, 29, and 30.
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3 comments:
My son did his minor thesis on MacDonald. I raised him right, I guess.
:o)
I'd say you did.
I only have excerpts and e-copies of this work, but I understand MacDonald had it printed only on the right-hand page. The left page was blank for the reader to note and comment. So, it was essentially a sort of non-electronic analog blog.
Must add MacDonald to my rapidly lengthening "to-read" list.
Good for what ails us.
Thanks!
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