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Sunday, August 27, 2006

Diary of an Old Soul, Aug 27 - Sept 2

27. For our imagination is, in small,
And with the making-difference that must be,
Mirror of God's creating mirror; all
That shows itself therein, that formeth he,
And there is Christ, no bodiless vanity,
Though, face to face, the mighty perfectness
With glory blurs the dim-reflected less.

28. I clasp thy feet, O father of the living!
Thou wilt not let my fluttering hopes be more,
Or lovelier, or greater, than thy giving!
Surely thy ships will bring to my poor shore,
Of gold and peacocks such a shining store
As will laugh all the dreams to holy scorn,
Of love and sorrow that were ever born.

29. Sometimes it seems pure natural to trust,
And trust right largely, grandly, infinitely,
Daring the splendour of the giver's part;
At other times, the whole earth is but dust,
The sky is dust, yea, dust the human heart;
Then art thou nowhere, there is no room for thee
In the great dust-heap of eternity.

30. But why should it be possible to mistrust--
Nor possible only, but its opposite hard?
Why should not man believe because he must--
By sight's compulsion? Why should he be scarred
With conflict? worn with doubting fine and long?--
No man is fit for heaven's musician throng
Who has not tuned an instrument all shook and jarred.

31. Therefore, O Lord, when all things common seem,
When all is dust, and self the centre clod,
When grandeur is a hopeless, foolish dream,
And anxious care more reasonable than God,--
Out of the ashes I will call to thee--
In spite of dead distrust call earnestly:--
Oh thou who livest, call, then answer dying me.

September 1. We are a shadow and a shining, we!
One moment nothing seems but what we see,
Nor aught to rule but common circumstance--
Nought is to seek but praise, to shun but chance;
A moment more, and God is all in all,
And not a sparrow from its nest can fall
But from the ground its chirp goes up into his hall.

2. I know at least which is the better mood.
When on a heap of cares I sit and brood,
Like Job upon his ashes, sorely vext,
I feel a lower thing than when I stood
The world's true heir, fearless as, on its stalk,
A lily meeting Jesus in his walk:
I am not all mood--I can judge betwixt.

The above is excerpted from George MacDonald's A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul (Public Domain, 1880). For further information see this post. These are the entries for/from August 27 - September 2.

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