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.
