Remember, Lord, thou hast not made me good.
Or if thou didst, it was so long ago
I have forgotten, and never understood,
I humbly think. At best it was crude,
A rough-hewn goodness, that did need this woe,
This sin, these harms of all kinds fierce and rude.
To shape it out, making it live and grow.
But thou art making me, I thank thee, sire.
What thou hast done and doest thou know'st well,
And I will help thee: gently in thy fire
I will lie burning; and thy potter's-wheel
I will whirl patient, though my brain should reel.
Thy grace shall be enough the grief to quell,
And growing strength perfect through weakness dire.
-George macdonald
1 comment:
I like this, especially the way it begins.
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