The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 61

Out of darkness came the morn, Out of death came life, I, and faith, and hope, new-born, Out of moaning strife!

So, one morning yet more fair, I shall, joyous-brave, Sudden breathing loftier air, Triumph o'er the grave.

Though this feeble body lie Underneath the ground, Wide awake, not sleeping, I Shall in him be found.

But a morn yet fairer must Quell this inner gloom-- Resurrection from the dust Of a deeper tomb!

Father, wake thy little child; Give me bread and wine Till my spirit undefiled Rise and live in thine.

_WRITTEN FOR ONE IN SORE PAIN_.

Shepherd, on before thy sheep, Hear thy lamb that bleats behind!

Scarce the track I stumbling keep!

Through my thin fleece blows the wind!

Turn and see me, Son of Man!

Turn and lift thy Father's child; Scarce I walk where once I ran: Carry me--the wind is wild!

Thou art strong--thy strength wilt share; My poor weight thou wilt not feel; Weakness made thee strong to bear, Suffering made thee strong to heal!

I were still a wandering sheep But for thee, O Shepherd-man!

Following now, I faint, I weep, Yet I follow as I can!

Shepherd, if I fall and lie Moaning in the frosty wind, Yet, I know, I shall not die-- Thou wilt miss me--and wilt find!

_A CHRISTMAS CAROL FOR 1862_,

THE YEAR OF THE TROUBLE IN LANCASHIRE.

The skies are pale, the trees are stiff, The earth is dull and old; The frost is glittering as if The very sun were cold.

And hunger fell is joined with frost, To make men thin and wan: Come, babe, from heaven, or we are lost; Be born, O child of man.

The children cry, the women shake, The strong men stare about; They sleep when they should be awake, They wake ere night is out.

For they have lost their heritage-- No sweat is on their brow: Come, babe, and bring them work and wage; Be born, and save us now.

Across the sea, beyond our sight, Roars on the fierce debate; The men go down in b.l.o.o.d.y fight, The women weep and hate; And in the right be which that may, Surely the strife is long!

Come, son of man, thy righteous way, And right will have no wrong.

Good men speak lies against thine own-- Tongue quick, and hearing slow; They will not let thee walk alone, And think to serve thee so: If they the children's freedom saw In thee, the children's king, They would be still with holy awe, Or only speak to sing.

Some neither lie nor starve nor fight, Nor yet the poor deny; But in their hearts all is not right,-- They often sit and sigh.

We need thee every day and hour, In sunshine and in snow: Child-king, we pray with all our power-- Be born, and save us so.

We are but men and women, Lord; Thou art a gracious child!

O fill our hearts, and heap our board, Pray thee--the winter's wild!

The sky is sad, the trees are bare, Hunger and hate about: Come, child, and ill deeds and ill fare Will soon be driven out.

_A CHRISTMAS CAROL_.

Babe Jesus lay in Mary's lap, The sun shone in his hair; And this was how she saw, mayhap, The crown already there.

For she sang: "Sleep on, my little king; Bad Herod dares not come; Before thee sleeping, holy thing, The wild winds would be dumb."

"I kiss thy hands, I kiss thy feet, My child, so long desired; Thy hands will never be soiled, my sweet; Thy feet will never be tired."

"For thou art the king of men, my son; Thy crown I see it plain!

And men shall worship thee, every one, And cry, Glory! Amen!"

Babe Jesus he opened his eyes wide-- At Mary looked her lord.

Mother Mary stinted her song and sighed; Babe Jesus said never a word.

_THE SLEEPLESS JESUS_.

'Tis time to sleep, my little boy: Why gaze thy bright eyes so?

At night our children, for new joy Home to thy father go, But thou art wakeful! Sleep, my child; The moon and stars are gone; The wind is up and raving wild, But thou art smiling on!

My child, thou hast immortal eyes That see by their own light; They see the children's blood--it lies Red-glowing through the night!

Thou hast an ever-open ear For sob or cry or moan: Thou seemest not to see or hear, Thou only smilest on!

When first thou camest to the earth, All sounds of strife were still; A silence lay about thy birth, And thou didst sleep thy fill: Thou wakest now--why weep'st thou not?

Thy earth is woe-begone; Both babes and mothers wail their lot, But still thou smilest on!

I read thy face like holy book; No hurt is pictured there; Deep in thine eyes I see the look Of one who answers prayer.

Beyond pale grief and wild uproars, Thou seest G.o.d's will well done; Low prayers, through chambers' closed doors, Thou hear'st--and smilest on.

Men say: "I will arise and go;"

G.o.d says: "I will go meet:"

Thou seest them gather, weeping low, About the Father's feet; And each for each begin to bear, And standing lonely none: Answered, O eyes, ye see all prayer!

Smile, Son of G.o.d, smile on.

_CHRISTMAS, 1873_.