Dedicated to George MacDonald, one of my many mentors, living and dead, from whom I have learned so much and from whom I have yet much to learn.
My prayer-bird was cold – would not away, Although I set it on the edge of the nest. Then I bethought me of the story old – Love-fact or loving fable, thou know'st best- How, when the children had made sparrows of clay, Thou mad'st them birds, with wings to flutter and fold: Take, Lord, my prayer in thy hand, and make it pray. My poor clay sparrow seems turned to a stone, And from my heart will neither fly nor run. I cannot feel as thou and I both would, But, Father, I am willing – make me good. What art thou Father for, but to help thy son? Look deep, yet deeper, in my heart, and there, Beyond where I can feel, read thou the prayer. George MacDonald