The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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XIII.

To Christ I needs must come, they say;

Who went to death for me:

I turn aside; I come, I pray,

My unknown God, to thee.

He is afar; the story old

Is blotted, worn, and dim;

With thee, O God, I can be bold--

I cannot pray to him.

Pray! At the word a cloudy grief

Around me folds its pall:

Nothing I have to call belief!

How can I pray at all?

I know not if a God be there

To heed my crying sore;

If in the great world anywhere

An ear keeps open door!

An unborn faith I will not nurse,

Pursue an endless task;

Loud out into its universe

My soul shall call and ask!

Is there no God--earth, sky, and sea

Are but a chaos wild!

Is there a God--I know that he

Must hear his calling child!

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