George MacDonald Poems

If thou art tempted by a thought of ill,
Crave not too soon for victory, nor deem
Thou art a coward if thy safety seem
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If in my arms I bore my child,
Would he cry out for fear
Because the night was dark and wild
And no one else was near?
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Dead art thou? No more dead than was the maid
Over whose couch the saving God did stand-
'She is not dead but sleepeth,' said,
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I said, I will arise and work some thing,
Nor be content with growth, but cause to grow
A life around me, clear as yes from no,
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I am weary, and very lonely,
And can but think-think.
If there were some water only
That a spirit might drink-drink,
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What gars ye sing sae, birdie,
As gien ye war lord o' the lift?
On breid ye're an unco sma' lairdie,
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If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun,
Pacing it wearily, wearily,
Twixt chapel and cell till day were done-
Wearily, wearily-
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'And yet it moves!' Ah, Truth, where wert thou then
When all for thee they racked each piteous limb?
Wert thou in heaven, and busy with thy hymn
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Daylight fades away.
Is the Lord at hand
In the shadows gray
Stealing on the land?
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Uplifted is the stone
And all mankind arisen!
We are thy very own,
We are no more in prison!
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