Читать книгу Paul Faber, Surgeon - George MacDonald - Страница 1

Clear-windowed temple of the God of grace,

From the loud wind to me a hiding-place!

Thee gird broad lands with genial motions rife,

But in thee dwells, high-throned, the Life of life

Thy test no stagnant moat half-filled with mud,

But living waters witnessing in flood!

Thy priestess, beauty-clad, and gospel-shod,

A fellow laborer in the earth with God!

Good will art thou, and goodness all thy arts—

Doves to their windows, and to thee fly hearts!

Take of the corn in thy dear shelter grown,

Which else the storm had all too rudely blown;

When to a higher temple thou shalt mount,

Thy earthly gifts in heavenly friends shall count;

Let these first-fruits enter thy lofty door,

And golden lie upon thy golden floor.