So Busy Growing

January 22, 2013 at 3:35 am (Remodeling the Mind) (, , , , , , , , , , )


The special discipline for some would seem to be that they shall never settle down, or feel as if they are home, until they are at home in the very fact in the quiet of their heart, no matter what their outward condition.
To be lord of space, a man must be free of all bonds to place. To be heir of all things, his heart must have no things in it. He must be like Him who makes things, not like one who would puts everything in his pocket. He must stand on the upper, not the lower side of them, where he controls rather than is controlled. He must be as the man who makes poems, not the man who gathers books of verse. He must be as the man who absorbs the truths of a book and brings its principles into his daily life, not the man who collects books for their bindings. Only so do the things, the poems, the books become truly his eternal possession.
God, having made a sunset, lets it pass, and makes such a sunset never again. God has no picture-gallery, no library, no collections, no monuments to the past. What if in heaven men shall be so busy growing that they shall not have time to write or read!

The miser he lay on his lonely bed,
Life’s candle was burning dim,
His heart in his iron chest was hid
Under heaps of gold and a well-locked lid.
And whether it were alive or dead,
It never troubled him.

Slowly out of his body he crept.
Said he, “I am all the same!
Only I want my heart in my breast;
I will go and fetch it out of the chest.”
Swift to the place of his gold he stepped –
But he was dead and had no shame.

He opened the lid – oh, hell and night!
For a ghost can see no gold;
Empty and swept – not a coin was there!
His heart lay alone in the chest so bare!
He felt with his hands, but they had no might
To finger or clasp or hold!

At his heart in the bottom he made a clutch –
A heart or puff-ball of sin?
Eaten with moths and fretted with rust,
He grasped but a handful of dry-rotted dust:
It was a horrible thing to touch,
But he hid it his breast within.

And now there are some that see him sit
In the tomb-like house alone,
Counting what seems to him shining gold,
Heap upon heap, a sum never told:
Alas, the dead how they lack of wit!
What he counts are not even bits of bone!

Another miser has got his chest,
And his painfully hoarded store;
Like ferrets his hands go in and out,
Burrowing, tossing the gold about;
And his heart too is out of his breast,
Hid in the yellow ore.

Which is the better – the ghost that sits
Counting shadowy coin all day,
Or the man that puts his hope and trust
In the thing whose value is only his lust?
Nothing he has when out he fits
But a heart all eaten away.

* He that would always know before he trust, who would have from his God a promise before he will place his confidence in Him, is the slayer of his own eternity.*

~ Taken from the book The Lairds Inheritance by George MacDonald

What we reap in growth, we sow in dying; that in the passing of all from our sight and our investing, we may open with the perfection of sight to see our treasure…The Son of the Living God as our measure! ~ LRV

Grace and peace in Yeshua the Messiah ❤


  1. mestreseo said,

    your words are like advice for me, i loved your post. mestreseo mestreseo mestreseo mestreseo mestreseo


    • buttrflygrl14 said,

      May the Lord flow in through them and be praised and found the true Author of them. Blessings Mestreseo.


  2. So Busy Growing | sevv61's Blog said,

    […] So Busy Growing. […]


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