Sunday, October 18, 2009

18 October


Father of me, thou art my bliss secure.
Make of me, Maker, whatsoe'er thou wilt.
Let fancy's wings hang moulting, hope grow poor,
And doubt steam up from where a joy was spilt--
I lose no time to reason it plain and clear,
But fly to thee, my life's perfection dear:--
Not what I think, but what thou art, makes sure.

George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul
 

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