By George MacDonald
Come to me, come to me, O my God;
Come to me everywhere!
Let the trees mean thee, and the grassy sod,
And the water and the air!
For thou art so far that I often doubt,
As on every side I stare,
Searching within, and looking without,
If thou canst be anywhere.
How did men find thee in days of old?
How did they grow so sure?
They fought in thy name, they were glad and bold,
They suffered, and kept themselves pure!
But now they say–neither above the sphere
Nor down in the heart of man,
But solely in fancy, ambition, and fear
The thought of thee began.
If only that perfect tale were true
Which ages have not made old,
Which of endless many makes one anew,
And simplicity manifold!
But he taught that they who did his word
The truth of it sure would know:
I will try to do it: if he be lord
Again the old faith will glow;
Again the old spirit-wind will blow
That he promised to their prayer;
And obeying the Son, I too shall know
His father everywhere!
