I come in the little things,
Saith the Lord; Not borne on morning wings Of majesty; but I have set my feet Amidst the delicate and bladed wheat That springs triumphant in the furrowed sod-- There do I dwell, in weakness and in power; Not broken or divided, said our God! In your straight garden plot I come to flower; About your porch my vine, Meek, fruitful, doth entwine, Waits, at the threshold, Love’s appointed hour. I come in the little things, Saith the Lord; Yea, on the glancing wings Of eager birds, the soft and pattering feet Of furred and gentle beasts, I come to meet Your hard and wayward heart. In brown bright eyes That peep from out the brake, I stand confest. On every nest Where feathery Patience is content to brood And leaves her pleasure for the high emprise Of motherhood-- There does my Godhead rest. I come in the little things, Saith the Lord; My starry wings I do forsake, Love’s highway of humility to take; Meekly I fit my stature to your need. In beggar’s part About your gates I shall not cease to plead As man, to speak with man Till by such art I shall achieve my immemorial plan; Pass the low lintel of the human heart. Evelyn Underhill, 1875-1941
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February 2021
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