O Christ, my life, possess me utterly.
Take me and make a little Christ of me.
If I am anything but thy Father’s son,
‘Tis something not yet from the darkness won.
Oh, give me light to live with open eyes.
Oh, give me life to hope above all skies.
Give me they spirit to haunt the Father with my cries.

‘Tis hard for us to rouse our spirits up—
It is the human creative agony,
Though but to hold the heart an empty cup,
Or tighten on the team the rigid rein.
Many will rather lie among the slain
Than creep through narrow ways the light to gain—
Than wake the will, and be born bitterly.

But we who would be born again indeed,
Must wake our souls unnumbered times a day,
And urge ourselves to life with holy greed;
Now ope our bosoms to the wind’s free play;
And now, with patience forceful, hard, lie still,
Submiss and ready to the making will,
Athirst and empty, for God’s breath to fill.

—George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul