Prayer.
by George MacDonald
We doubt the word that tells us: Ask,
And ye shall have your prayer;
We turn our thoughts as to a task,
With will constrained and rare.
And yet we have; these scanty prayers
Yield gold without alloy:
O God, but he that trusts and dares
Must have a boundless joy!
I love that this poem's title ends with a period. I don't know if MacDonald titled it himself - if he jabbed that period into place with his inky quill; or if it was an editor's addition; or a typesetter's mistake.
But it speaks to me.
Of finality.
Of settledness.
Of trust.
Trusting to dare to ask.
* * * * *
note: I originally saw this prayer in Mrs. Howard Taylor: Her Web of Time by Joy Guinness (London: Lutterworth, 1949) 293. The original source is: George MacDonald, Poems. (London: Longman, Brown, Green, Longmans, & Roberts, 1857) 127.