By Evelyn Underhill (Mrs. Stuart Moore) (b. 1875)

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, saith our God! In your strait 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 softly 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 emprize

Of motherhood—There doth 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:

MeeklyI fit My stature to your need.

In beggar’s partAbout your gates

I shall not cease to plead—

As man, to speak with man—

Till by such artI shall achieve

My Immemorial Plan,

Pass the low lintel of the human heart.