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    A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul
    A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul
    A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul
    Ebook147 pages1 hour

    A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul

    By George MacDonald

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateJan 1, 1965
    A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul
    Author

    George MacDonald

    George MacDonald (1824-1905) was born in Aberdeenshire, Scotland. After making a name for himself as a preacher, he left the ministry in 1850 to pursue a literary career, writing over fifty books to support his family of eleven children. To this day, MacDonald’s novels, fantasies, and children's stories are cherished for their literary quality and spiritual insight; C. S. Lewis has said that MacDonald’s influence can be found in every book he wrote.

    Read more from George Mac Donald

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    • 4/5
      I started reading these one a night, but ended up reading them in several large chunks, mostly due to their nature. Often, several days or even months would feel like a long poem or train of thought. I would get caught up in their poignant beauty and palatable truth. Each prayer was short, only a few lines, but compact with ideas to ruminant upon. I had many that struck me hard, but my favorite prayers are as follows:July 17I cannot tell why this day I am ill;But I well because it is they will – Which is to make me pure and right like thee. Not yet I need escape – ‘tis bearableBecause thou knowest. And when harder things Shall rise and gather, and overshadow me, I shall have comfort in thy strengtheningJune 20But now the Spirit and I are on in this – My hunger now is after righteousness;My spirit hopes in God to set me freeFrom the low self loathed of higher meGreat elder brother of my second birthDear o’er all names but one, in heaven or earthTeach me all day to love eternallyMay 27So bound in selfishness am I, so chained, I know it must be glorious to be freeBut know not what, full-fraught, the word doth mean;By loss on loss I have several gainedWisdom enough my slavery to see;But liberty, pure, absolute, sereneNo freest-visioned slave has ever seen. February 2The worst power of an evil mood is this – It makes the bastard self seem in the right, Self, self the end, the goal of human bliss. But if the Christ-self in us be the might Of saving God, why should I spend my force With a dark thing to reason of the light - Not push it rough aside, and hold obedient course?

    Book preview

    A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul - George MacDonald

    The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary

    of an Old Soul, by George MacDonald

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

    almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or

    re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

    with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

    Title: A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul

    Author: George MacDonald

    Release Date: October 1, 2008 [EBook #1953]

    Last Updated: January 15, 2013

    Language: English

    *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOOK OF STRIFE ***

    Produced by John Bechard, and David Widger

    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

    Contents

    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.

         6.

         Then shall I breathe in sweetest sharing, then

         Think in harmonious consort with my kin;

         Then shall I love well all my father's men,

         Feel one with theirs the life my heart within.

         Oh brothers! sisters holy! hearts divine!

         Then I shall be all yours, and nothing mine—

         To every human heart a mother-twin.

         7.

         I see a child before an empty house,

         Knocking and knocking at the closed door;

         He wakes dull echoes—but nor man nor mouse,

         If he stood knocking there for evermore.—

         A mother angel, see! folding each wing,

         Soft-walking, crosses straight the empty floor,

         And opens to the obstinate praying thing.

         8.

         Were there but some deep, holy spell, whereby

         Always I should remember thee—some mode

         Of feeling the pure heat-throb momently

         Of the spirit-fire still uttering this I!—

         Lord, see thou to it, take thou remembrance' load:

         Only when I bethink me can I cry;

         Remember thou, and prick me with love's goad.

         9.

         If to myself—God sometimes interferes—

         I said, my faith at once would be struck blind.

         I see him all in all, the lifing mind,

         Or nowhere in the vacant miles and years.

         A love he is that watches and that hears,

         Or but a mist fumed up from minds of men,

         Whose fear and hope reach out beyond their ken.

         10.

         When I no more can stir my soul to move,

         And life is but the ashes of a fire;

         When I can but remember that my heart

         Once used to live and love, long and aspire,—

         Oh, be thou then the first, the one thou art;

         Be thou the calling, before all answering love,

         And in me wake hope, fear, boundless desire.

         11.

         I thought that I had lost thee; but, behold!

         Thou comest to me from the horizon low,

         Across the fields outspread of green and gold—

         Fair carpet for thy feet to come and go.

         Whence I know not, or how to me thou art come!—

         Not less my spirit with calm bliss doth glow,

         Meeting thee only thus, in nature vague and dumb.

         12.

         Doubt swells and surges, with swelling doubt behind!

         My soul in storm is but a tattered sail,

         Streaming its ribbons on the torrent gale;

         In calm, 'tis but a limp and flapping thing:

         Oh! swell it with thy breath; make it a wing,—

         To sweep through thee the ocean, with thee the wind

         Nor rest until in thee its haven it shall find.

         13.

         The idle flapping of the sail is doubt;

         Faith swells it full to breast the breasting seas.

         Bold, conscience, fast, and rule the ruling helm;

         Hell's freezing north no tempest can send out,

         But it shall toss thee homeward to thy leas;

         Boisterous wave-crest never shall o'erwhelm

         Thy sea-float bark as safe as field-borne rooted elm.

         14.

         Sometimes, hard-trying, it seems I cannot pray—

         For doubt, and pain, and anger, and all strife.

         Yet some poor half-fledged prayer-bird from the nest

         May fall, flit, fly, perch—crouch in the bowery breast

         Of the large, nation-healing tree of life;—

         Moveless there sit through all the burning day,

         And on my heart at night a fresh leaf cooling lay.

         15.

         My harvest withers. Health, my means to live—

         All things seem rushing straight into the dark.

         But the dark still is God. I would not give

         The smallest silver-piece to turn the rush

         Backward or sideways. Am I not a spark

         Of him who is the light?—Fair hope doth flush

         My east.—Divine success—Oh, hush and hark!

         16.

         Thy will be done. I yield up everything.

         The life is more than meat—then more than health;

         The body more than raiment—then than wealth;

         The hairs I made not, thou art numbering.

         Thou art my life—I the brook, thou the spring.

         Because thine eyes are open, I can see;

         Because thou art thyself, 'tis therefore I am me.

         17.

         No sickness can come near to blast my health;

         My life depends not upon any meat;

         My bread comes not from any human tilth;

         No wings will grow upon my changeless wealth;

         Wrong cannot touch it, violence

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