A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul. George MacDonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.

           I was like Peter when he began to sink.

           To thee a new prayer therefore I have got—

           That, when Death comes in earnest to my door,

           Thou wouldst thyself go, when the latch doth clink,

           And lead him to my room, up to my cot;

           Then hold thy child's hand, hold and leave him not,

           Till Death has done with him for evermore.

           Till Death has done with him?—Ah, leave me then!

           And Death has done with me, oh, nevermore!

           He comes—and goes—to leave me in thy arms,

           Nearer thy heart, oh, nearer than before!

           To lay thy child, naked, new-born again

           Of mother earth, crept free through many harms,

           Upon thy bosom—still to the very core.

           Come to me, Lord: I will not speculate how,

           Nor think at which door I would have thee appear,

           Nor put off calling till my floors be swept,

           But cry, "Come, Lord, come any way, come now."

           Doors, windows, I throw wide; my head I bow,

           And sit like some one who so long has slept

           That he knows nothing till his life draw near.

           O Lord, I have been talking to the people;

           Thought's wheels have round me whirled a fiery zone,

           And the recoil of my words' airy ripple

           My heart unheedful has puffed up and blown.

           Therefore I cast myself before thee prone:

           Lay cool hands on my burning brain, and press

           From my weak heart the swelling emptiness.

           I TO myself have neither power nor worth,

           Patience nor love, nor anything right good;

           My soul is a poor land, plenteous in dearth—

           Here blades of grass, there a small herb for food—

           A nothing that would be something if it could;

           But if obedience, Lord, in me do grow,

           I shall one day be better than I know.

           The worst power of an evil mood is this—

           It makes the bastard self seem in the right,

           Self, self the end, the goal of human bliss.

           But if the Christ-self in us be the might

           Of saving God, why should I spend my force

           With a dark thing to reason of the light—

           Not push it rough aside, and hold obedient course?

           Back still it comes to this: there was a man

           Who said, "I am the truth, the life, the way:"—

           Shall I pass on, or shall I stop and hear?—

           "Come to the Father but by me none can:"

           What then is this?—am I not also one

           Of those who live in fatherless dismay?

           I stand, I look, I listen, I draw near.

           My Lord, I find that nothing else will do,

           But follow where thou goest, sit at thy feet,

           And where I have thee not, still run to meet.

           Roses are scentless, hopeless are the morns,

           Rest is but weakness, laughter crackling thorns,

           If thou, the Truth, do not make them the true:

           Thou art my life, O Christ, and nothing else will do.

           Thou art here—in heaven, I know, but not from here—

           Although thy separate self do not appear;

           If I could part the light from out the day,

           There I should have thee! But thou art too near:

           How find thee walking, when thou art the way?

           Oh, present Christ! make my eyes keen as stings,

           To see thee at their heart, the glory even of things.

           That thou art nowhere to be found, agree

           Wise men, whose eyes are but for surfaces;

           Men with eyes opened by the second birth,

           To whom the seen, husk of the unseen is,

           Descry thee soul of everything on earth.

           Who know thy ends, thy means and motions see:

           Eyes made for glory soon discover thee.

           Thou near then, I draw nearer—to thy feet,

           And sitting in thy shadow, look out on the shine;

           Ready at thy first word to leave my seat—

           Not thee: thou goest too. From every clod

           Into thy footprint flows the indwelling wine;

           And in my daily bread, keen-eyed I greet

           Its being's heart, the very body of God.

           Thou wilt interpret life to me, and men,

           Art, nature, yea, my own soul's mysteries—

           Bringing, truth out, clear-joyous, to my ken,

           Fair as the morn trampling the dull night. Then

           The lone hill-side shall hear exultant cries;

           The joyous see me joy, the weeping weep;

           The watching smile, as Death breathes on me his cold sleep.

           I search my heart—I search, and find no faith.

           Hidden He may be in its many folds—

           I see him not revealed in all the world

           Duty's firm shape thins to a misty wraith.

           No good seems likely. To and fro I am hurled.

           I have no stay. Only obedience holds:—