A favorite from the incomparable George MacDonald on this less than ten-minute Tuesday.
Smoke
(George Macdonald)
Lord,
I have laid my heart upon thy altar
But cannot get the wood to
burn;
It hardly flares ere it begins to falter
And to the dark
return.
Old sap,
or night-fallen dew, makes damp the fuel;
In vain my breath would
flame provoke;
Yet see—at every poor attempt's renewal
To
thee ascends the smoke!
'Tis
all I have—smoke, failure, foiled endeavour,
Coldness and doubt
and palsied lack:
Such as I have I send thee!—perfect
Giver,
Send thou thy lightning back.
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