George MacDonald

    As Jesus went into Jericho town,
    Twas darkness all, from toe to crown,
        About blind Bartimeus.
    He said, "My eyes are more than dim,
    They are no use for seeing him:
        No matter--he can see us!"

    "Cry out, cry out, blind brother--cry;
    Let not salvation dear go by.--
        Have mercy, Son of David."
    Though they were blind, they both could hear--
    They heard, and cried, and he drew near;
        And so the blind were saved.

    O Jesus Christ, I am very blind;
    Nothing comes through into my mind;
        'Tis well I am not dumb:
    Although I see thee not, nor hear,
    I cry because thou may'st be near:
        O son of Mary, come!

    I hear it through the all things blind:
    Is ...

"My life is drear; walking I labour sore;
    The heart in me is heavy as a stone;
And of my sorrows this the icy core:
    Life is so wide, and I am all alone!"

Thou did'st walk so, with heaven-born eyes down bent
    Upon the earth's gold-rosy, radiant clay,
That thou had'st seen no star in all God's tent
    Had not thy tears made pools first on the way.

Ah, little knowest thou the tender care
    In a love-plenteous cloak around thee thrown!
Full many a dim-seen, saving mountain-stair
    Toiling thou climb'st--but not one step alone!

Lift but thy languid head and see thy guide;
    Let thy steps go in his, nor choose thine own;
Then soon wilt thou, thine eyes with wonder wide,
    Cry, Now I know I never was alone!

Methought I stood among the stars alone,
Watching a grey parched orb which onward flew
Half blinded by the dusty winds that blew,
Empty as Death and barren as a stone,
The pleasant sound of water all unknown!
When, as I looked in wonderment, there grew,
High in the air above, a drop of dew,
Which, gathering slowly through long cycles, shone
Like a great tear; and then at last it fell
Clasping the orb, which drank it greedily,
With a delicious noise and upward swell
Of sweet cool joy that tossed me like a sea;
And then the thick life sprang as from a grave,
With trees, flowers, boats upon the bounding wave!

Brother artist, help me; come!
    Artists are a maimed band:
    I have words but not a hand;
Thou hast hands though thou art dumb.

Had I thine, when words did fail--
    Vassal-words their hasting chief,
    On the white awaiting leaf
Shapes of power should tell the tale.

Had I hers of music-might,
    I would shake the air with storm
    Till the red clouds trailed enorm
Boreal dances through the night.

Had I his whose foresight rare
    Piles the stones with lordliest art,
    From the quarry of my heart
Love should climb a heavenly stair!

Had I his whose wooing slow
    Wins the marble's hidden child,
    Out in passion undefiled
Stood my Psyche, white as snow!

Maimed, a little help I pray;
    Words ...

Close her eyes: she must not peep!
Let her little puds go slack;
Slide away far into sleep:
Sis will watch till she comes back!

Mother's knitting at the door,
Waiting till the kettle sings;
When the kettle's song is o'er
She will set the bright tea-things.

Father's busy making hay
In the meadow by the brook,
Not so very far away--
Close its peeps, it needn't look!

God is round us everywhere--
Sees the scythe glitter and rip;
Watches baby gone somewhere;
Sees how mother's fingers skip!

Sleep, dear baby; sleep outright:
    Mother's sitting just behind:
Father's only out of sight;
    God is round us like the wind.

    Christmas-Days are still in store:--
        Will they change--steal faded hither?
    Or come fresh as heretofore,
        Summering all our winter weather?

    Surely they will keep their bloom
        All the countless pacing ages:
    In the country whence they come
        Children only are the sages!

    Hither, every hour and year,
        Children come to cure our oldness--
    Oft, alas, to gather sear
        Unbelief, and earthy boldness!

    Men they grow and women cold,
        Selfish, passionate, and plaining!
    Ever faster they grow old:--
        On the world, ah, eld is gaining!

    Child, whose childhood ne'er departs!
        Jesus, with the perfect father!
    Drive the age from parents' hearts;

Great-hearted child, thy very being The Son,
    Who know'st the hearts of all us prodigals;--
For who is prodigal but he who has gone
    Far from the true to heart it with the false?--
    Who, who but thou, that, from the animals',
        Know'st all the hearts, up to the Father's own,
        Can tell what it would be to be alone!

Alone! No father!--At the very thought
    Thou, the eternal light, wast once aghast;
A death in death for thee it almost wrought!
    But thou didst haste, about to breathe thy last,
    And call'dst out Father ere thy spirit passed,
        Exhausted in fulfilling not any vow,
        But doing his will who greater is than thou.

That we might know him, thou didst come and live;
    That we might find him, ...

    Though in my heart no Christmas glee,
        Though my song-bird be dumb,
    Jesus, it is enough for me
        That thou art come.

    What though the loved be scattered far,
        Few at the board appear,
    In thee, O Lord, they gathered are,
        And thou art here.

    And if our hearts be low with lack,
        They are not therefore numb;
    Not always will thy day come back--
        Thyself will come!

Beautiful stories wed with lovely days
    Like words and music:--what shall be the tale
    Of love and nobleness that might avail
To express in action what this sweetness says--

The sweetness of a day of airs and rays
    That are strange glories on the winter pale?
    Alas, O beauty, all my fancies fail!
I cannot tell a story in thy praise!

Thou hast, thou hast one--set, and sure to chime
    With thee, as with the days of "winter wild;"
        For Joy like Sorrow loves his blessed feet
Who shone from Heaven on Earth this Christmas-time
    A Brother and a Saviour, Mary's child!--
        And so, fair day, thou hast thy story sweet.

I think I might be weary of this day
That comes inevitably every year,
The same when I was young and strong and gay,
The same when I am old and growing sere--
I should grow weary of it every year
But that thou comest to me every day.

I shall grow weary if thou every day
But come to me, Lord of eternal life;
I shall grow weary thus to watch and pray,
For ever out of labour into strife;
Take everlasting house with me, my life,
And I shall be new-born this Christmas-day.

Thou art the Eternal Son, and born no day,
But ever he the Father, thou the Son;
I am his child, but being born alway--
How long, O Lord, how long till it be done?
Be thou from endless years to years the Son--
And I thy brother, new-born every day.

    Star high,
    Baby low:
    'Twixt the two
    Wise men go;
    Find the baby,
    Grasp the star--
    Heirs of all things
    Near and far!

    He who by a mother's love
        Made the wandering world his own,
    Every year comes from above,
        Comes the parted to atone,
        Binding Earth to the Father's throne.

    Nay, thou comest every day!
        No, thou never didst depart!
    Never hour hast been away!
        Always with us, Lord, thou art,
        Binding, binding heart to heart!

    Cold my heart, and poor, and low,
        Like thy stable in the rock;
    Do not let it orphan go,
        It is of thy parent stock!
    Come thou in, and it will grow
        High and wide, a fane divine;
    Like the ruby it will glow,
        Like the diamond shine!

    Well for youth to seek the strong,
        Beautiful, and brave!
    We, the old, who walk along
        Gently to the grave,
    Only pay our court to thee,
    Child of all Eternity!

    We are old who once were young,
        And we grow more old;
    Songs we are that have been sung,
        Tales that have been told;
    Yellow leaves, wind-blown to thee,
    Childhood of Eternity!

    If we come too sudden near,
        Lo, Earth's infant cries,
    For our faces wan and drear
        Have such withered eyes!
    Thou, Heaven's child, turn'st not away
    From the wrinkled ones who pray!

    Smile upon us with thy mouth
        And thine eyes of grace;
    On our cold north breathe thy south.
        Thaw th...

Wash the window; rub it dry;
    Make the ray-door clean and bright:
He who lords it in the sky
    Loves on cottage floors to light!

Looking over sea and beck,
    Mountain-forest, orchard-bloom,
He can spy the smallest speck
    Anywhere about the room!

See how bright his torch is blazing
    In the heart of mother's store!
Strange! I never saw him gazing
    So into that press before!

Ah, I see!--the wooden pane
    In the window, dull and dead,
Father called its loss a gain,
    And a glass one put instead!

What a difference it makes!
    How it melts the filmy gloom!
What a little more it takes
    Much to brighten up a room!

There I spy a dusty streak!
    There a corner not quite clean!
There a...

Still am I haunting
    Thy door with my prayers;
Still they are panting
    Up thy steep stairs!
Wouldst thou not rather
    Come down to my heart,
And there, O my Father,
    Be what thou art?

Come to me, come to me, O my God;
    Come to me everywhere!
Let the trees mean thee, and the grassy sod,
    And the water and the air!

For thou art so far that I often doubt,
    As on every side I stare,
Searching within, and looking without,
    If thou canst be anywhere.

How did men find thee in days of old?
    How did they grow so sure?
They fought in thy name, they were glad and bold,
    They suffered, and kept themselves pure!

But now they say--neither above the sphere
    Nor down in the heart of man,
But solely in fancy, ambition, and fear
    The thought of thee began.

If only that perfect tale were true
    Which ages have not made old,
Which of endless many makes one anew,
    And simplicity manifold!
...

    Come unto me, the Master says:--
        But how? I am not good;
    No thankful song my heart will raise,
        Nor even wish it could.

    I am not sorry for the past,
        Nor able not to sin;
    The weary strife would ever last
        If once I should begin!

    Hast thou no burden then to bear?
        No action to repent?
    Is all around so very fair?
        Is thy heart quite content?

    Hast thou no sickness in thy soul?
        No labour to endure?
    Then go in peace, for thou art whole;
        Thou needest not his cure.

    Ah, mock me not! I often sigh;
        I have a nameless grief,
    A faint sad pain--but such that I
        Can look for no relief.

    Come, come to him who ma...