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I long to see Christ formed in me and in those around me. Spiritual formation is my passion. My training was under Dallas Willard at the Renovare Spiritual Formation Institute. One of my regular prayers is this: "This day be within and without me, lowly and meek, yet all powerful. Be in the heart of each to whom I speak, and in the mouth of each who speaks unto me."

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Tuesday, July 19, 2011

The Lost Church

Oft in the far wood, overhead,
Tones of a bell are heard obscurely;
How old the sounds no sage has said,
Or yet explained the story surely.

From the lost church, the legend saith,
Out on the winds, the ringing goeth;
Once full of pilgrims was the path—
Now where to find it, no one knoweth.

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Deep in the wood I lately went,
Where no foot-trodden path is lying;
From the time's woe and discontent,
My heart went forth to God in sighing.

When in the forest's wild repose,
I heard the ringing somewhat clearer;
The higher that my longing rose,
Downward it rang the fuller, nearer.



So on its thoughts my heart did brood,
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My sense was with the sound so busy,
That I have never understood
How I clomb up the height so dizzy.

To me it seemed a hundred years
Had passed away in dreaming, sighing—
When lo! high o'er the clouds, appears
An open space in sunlight lying.

The heaven, dark-blue, above it bowed;
The sun shone o'er it, large and glowing;
Beneath, a ministers structure proud
Stood in the gold light, golden showing.

It seemed on those great clouds, sun-clear,
Aloft to hover, as on pinions;
Its spire-point seemed to disappear,
Melting away in high dominions.

The bell's clear tones, entrancing, full—
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The quivering tower, they, booming, swung it;
No human hand the rope did pull—
The holy storm-winds sweeping rung it. 

The storm, the stream, came down, came near,
And seized my heart with longing holy;
Into the church I went, with fear,
With trembling step, and gladness lowly.

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The threshold crossed--I cannot show
What in me moved; words cannot paint it.
Both dark and clear, the windows glow
With noble forms of martyrs sainted.

I gazed and saw--transfigured glory!
The pictures swell and break their barriers;
I saw the world and all its story
Of holy women, holy warriors.



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Down at the altar I sank slowly;
My heart was like the face of Stephen.
Aloft, upon the arches holy,
Shone out in gold the glow of heaven.

I prayed; I looked again; and lo!
The dome's high sweep had flown asunder;
The heavenly gates wide open go;
And every veil unveils a wonder.


What gloriousness I then beheld, 
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Kneeling in prayer, silent and wondrous,
What sounds triumphant on me swelled,
Like organs and like trumpets thunderous—

My mortal words can never tell;
But who for such is sighing sorest,
Let him give heed unto the bell
That dimly soundeth in the forest.'"












George MacDonald





(As a commentary on this poem, read the conversation after the poem is read in MacDonald’s Story, Adela Cathcart:

  "What is the lost church?" asked Mrs. Cathcart.
  "No one can tell, but him who finds it, like the poet," answered the curate.
  "But I suppose you at least consider it the Church of England," returned the lady with one of her sweetest attempts at a smile.
  "God forbid!" exclaimed the clergyman, with a kind of sacred horror.
  "Not the Church of England!" cried Mrs. Cathcart, in a tone of horror likewise, dashed with amazement.
  "No, madam--the Church of God; the great cathedral-church of the universe; of which Church I trust the Church of England is a little Jesus-chapel. . . “
  "Whoever finds God in his own heart," said the clergyman, solemnly, "has found the lost Church--the Church of God.”)


What else can I say?  MacDonald does it best.  Only this:


O God, you are my God. 
  Earnestly I seek you. 
My soul thirsts for you,
  My body longs for you
In a dry and weary land
  Where there is no water.

I have seen you in the sanctuary
  And beheld your power and your glory. . . (Ps. 63)

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