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)