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A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Ol

Produced by John Bechard

A BOOK OF STRIFE IN THE FORM OF THE DIARY OF AN OLD SOUL

by George MacDonald

Published in 1880.

[The dedication refers to the fact that the book was originally published using only the right-hand side pages of the book, leaving the left-hand side blank to allow for and acknowledge any thoughtful reader responses.]

JB

DEDICATION

Sweet friends, receive my offering. You will find Against each worded page a white page set:-- This is the mirror of each friendly mind Reflecting that. In this book we are met. Make it, dear hearts, of worth to you indeed:-- Let your white page be ground, my print be seed, Growing to golden ears, that faith and hope shall feed.

YOUR OLD SOUL

THE DIARY OF AN OLD SOUL.

JANUARY.

1.

LORD, what I once had done with youthful might, Had I been from the first true to the truth, Grant me, now old, to do--with better sight, And humbler heart, if not the brain of youth; So wilt thou, in thy gentleness and ruth, Lead back thy old soul, by the path of pain, Round to his best--young eyes and heart and brain.

2.

A dim aurora rises in my east, Beyond the line of jagged questions hoar, As if the head of our intombed High Priest Began to glow behind the unopened door: Sure the gold wings will soon rise from the gray!-- They rise not. Up I rise, press on the more, To meet the slow coming of the Master's day.

3.

Sometimes I wake, and, lo! I have forgot, And drifted out upon an ebbing sea! My soul that was at rest now resteth not, For I am with myself and not with thee; Truth seems a blind moon in a glaring morn, Where nothing is but sick-heart vanity: Oh, thou who knowest! save thy child forlorn.

4.

Death, like high faith, levelling, lifteth all. When I awake, my daughter and my son, Grown sister and brother, in my arms shall fall, Tenfold my girl and boy. Sure every one Of all the brood to the old wings will run. Whole-hearted is my worship of the man From whom my earthly history began.

5.

Thy fishes breathe but where thy waters roll; Thy birds fly but within thy airy sea; My soul breathes only in thy infinite soul; I breathe, I think, I love, I live but thee. Oh breathe, oh think,--O Love, live into me; Unworthy is my life till all divine, Till thou see in me only what is thine.


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