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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 reign.

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 open 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”)