Eine Kleine Predigt

Graut Euch nicht, Ihr lieben Leute,
    Vor dem ungeheuren Morgen;
Wenn es kommt, es ist das Heute,
    Und der liebe Gott zu sorgen.

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

0 Lord, How Happy!

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Much And More

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Sonnet. About Jesus. III.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Christmas Meditation

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

German

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

To-Morrow

    My TO-MORROW is but a flitting
    Fancy of the brain;
    God's TO-MORROW an angel sitting,
    Ready for joy or pain.

    My TO-MORROW has no soul,
    Dead as yesterdays;
    God's--a brimming silver bowl
    Of life that gleams and plays.

    My TO-MORROW, I mock you away!
    Shadowless nothing, thou!
    God's TO-MORROW, come, dear day,
    For God is in thee now.

George MacDonald

0 Lord, How Happy!

From the German of Dessler.

O Lord, how happy is the time
    When in thy love I rest!
When from my weariness I climb
    Even to thy tender breast!
The night of sorrow endeth there--
    Thou art brighter than the sun;
And in thy pardon and thy care
    The heaven of heaven is won.

Let the world call herself my foe,
    Or let the world allure--
I care not for the world; I go
    To this dear friend and sure.
And when life's fiercest storms are sent
    Upon life's wildest sea,
My little bark is confident
    Because it holds by thee.

When the law threatens endless death
    Upon the dreadful hill,
Straightway from her consuming breath
    My soul goeth higher still--
Goeth to Jesus, wounded, slain,
    A...

George MacDonald

Song Of The Waiting Dead

With us there is no gray fearing,
With us no aching for lack!
For the morn it is always nearing,
And the night is at our back.
At times a song will fall dumb,
A thought-bell burst in a sigh,
But no one says, "He will not come!"
She says, "He is almost nigh!"

The thing you call a sorrow
Is our delight on its way:
We know that the coming morrow
Comes on the wheels of to-day!
Our Past is a child asleep;
Delay is ripening the kiss;
The rising tear we will not weep
Until it flow for bliss.

George MacDonald

Evening Hymn

    O God, whose daylight leadeth down
        Into the sunless way,
    Who with restoring sleep dost crown
        The labour of the day!

    What I have done, Lord, make it clean
        With thy forgiveness dear;
    That so to-day what might have been,
        To-morrow may appear.

    And when my thought is all astray,
        Yet think thou on in me;
    That with the new-born innocent day
        My soul rise fresh and free.

    Nor let me wander all in vain
        Through dreams that mock and flee;
    But even in visions of the brain,
        Go wandering toward thee.

George MacDonald

Quiet Dead!

Quiet, quiet dead,
Have ye aught to say
From your hidden bed
In the earthy clay?

Fathers, children, mothers,
Ye are very quiet;
Can ye shout, my brothers?
I would know you by it!

Have ye any words
That are like to ours?
Have ye any birds?
Have ye any flowers?

Could ye rise a minute
When the sun is warm?
I would know you in it,
I would take no harm.

I am half afraid
In the ghostly night;
If ye all obeyed
I should fear you quite.

But when day is breaking
In the purple east
I would meet you waking--
One of you at least--

When the sun is tipping
Every stony block,
And the sun is slipping
Down the weathercock.

Quiet, quiet dead,
I will not perplex you;
Wh...

George MacDonald

To G. M. T

    The sun is sinking in the west,
    Long grow the shadows dim;
    Have patience, sister, to be blest,
    Wait patiently for Him.

    Thou knowest love, much love hast had,
    Great things of love mayst tell,
    Ought'st never to be very sad
    For thou too hast lov'd well.

    His house thou know'st, who on the brink
    Of death loved more than thou,
    Loved more than thy great heart can think,
    And just as then loves now--

    In that great house is one who waits
    For thy slow-coming foot;
    Glad is he with his angel-mates
    Yet often listens mute,

    For he of all men loves thee best:
    He haunts the heavenly clock;
    Ah, he has long been up and drest
    To open to thy knock!

    F...

George MacDonald