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

           I will not shift my ground like Moab's king,

           But from this spot whereon I stand, I pray—

           From this same barren rock to thee I say,

           "Lord, in my commonness, in this very thing

           That haunts my soul with folly—through the clay

           Of this my pitcher, see the lamp's dim flake;

           And hear the blow that would the pitcher break."

           Be thou the well by which I lie and rest;

           Be thou my tree of life, my garden ground;

           Be thou my home, my fire, my chamber blest,

           My book of wisdom, loved of all the best;

           Oh, be my friend, each day still newer found,

           As the eternal days and nights go round!

           Nay, nay—thou art my God, in whom all loves are bound!

           Two things at once, thou know'st I cannot think.

           When busy with the work thou givest me,

           I cannot consciously think then of thee.

           Then why, when next thou lookest o'er the brink

           Of my horizon, should my spirit shrink,

           Reproached and fearful, nor to greet thee run?

           Can I be two when I am only one.

           My soul must unawares have sunk awry.

           Some care, poor eagerness, ambition of work,

           Some old offence that unforgiving did lurk,

           Or some self-gratulation, soft and sly—

           Something not thy sweet will, not the good part,

           While the home-guard looked out, stirred up the old murk,

           And so I gloomed away from thee, my Heart.

           Therefore I make provision, ere I begin

           To do the thing thou givest me to do,

           Praying,—Lord, wake me oftener, lest I sin.

           Amidst my work, open thine eyes on me,

           That I may wake and laugh, and know and see

           Then with healed heart afresh catch up the clue,

           And singing drop into my work anew.

           If I should slow diverge, and listless stray

           Into some thought, feeling, or dream unright,

           O Watcher, my backsliding soul affray;

           Let me not perish of the ghastly blight.

           Be thou, O Life eternal, in me light;

           Then merest approach of selfish or impure

           Shall start me up alive, awake, secure.

           Lord, I have fallen again—a human clod!

           Selfish I was, and heedless to offend;

           Stood on my rights. Thy own child would not send

           Away his shreds of nothing for the whole God!

           Wretched, to thee who savest, low I bend:

           Give me the power to let my rag-rights go

           In the great wind that from thy gulf doth blow.

           Keep me from wrath, let it seem ever so right:

           My wrath will never work thy righteousness.

           Up, up the hill, to the whiter than snow-shine,

           Help me to climb, and dwell in pardon's light.

           I must be pure as thou, or ever less

           Than thy design of me—therefore incline

           My heart to take men's wrongs as thou tak'st mine.

           Lord, in thy spirit's hurricane, I pray,

           Strip my soul naked—dress it then thy way.

           Change for me all my rags to cloth of gold.

           Who would not poverty for riches yield?

           A hovel sell to buy a treasure-field?

           Who would a mess of porridge careful hold

           Against the universe's birthright old?

           Help me to yield my will, in labour even,

           Nor toil on toil, greedy of doing, heap—

           Fretting I cannot more than me is given;

           That with the finest clay my wheel runs slow,

           Nor lets the lovely thing the shapely grow;

           That memory what thought gives it cannot keep,

           And nightly rimes ere morn like cistus-petals go.

           'Tis—shall thy will be done for me?—or mine,

           And I be made a thing not after thine—

           My own, and dear in paltriest details?

           Shall I be born of God, or of mere man?

           Be made like Christ, or on some other plan?—

           I let all run:—set thou and trim my sails;

           Home then my course, let blow whatever gales.

           With thee on board, each sailor is a king

           Nor I mere captain of my vessel then,

           But heir of earth and heaven, eternal child;

           Daring all truth, nor fearing anything;

           Mighty in love, the servant of all men;

           Resenting nothing, taking rage and blare

           Into the Godlike silence of a loving care.

           I cannot see, my God, a reason why

           From morn to night I go not gladsome free;

           For, if thou art what my soul thinketh thee,

           There is no burden but should lightly lie,

           No duty but a joy at heart must be:

           Love's perfect will can be nor sore nor small,