The Garden Gate

There's a palace of our maker
Whither many find their way
Whose glorious extensions
Ever beautify this day.
And there our expectations find
His presence all enthroned
In majesty and splendour
That is perfection honed.

The power and vitality
That clothes that noble form
So dazzles all who enter there,
Though great and strong they be,
That thoughts and tongues
Have naught to say
And limbs bow reverently.

Yet may be found
Some other ground
Behind the palace walls
Where open stays
A little gate
Upon a garden there.
And here you see
A gentle one
In simple garden clothes
Living with simplicity
The only way He knows.

He forms for us another self
That we may honour Him
Who uses power and glory
To birth and educate
His children past the palace door
Towards his garden gate.

With dog and cat and cup of tea
He sits or wanders casually,
Looking up from time to time
Towards the palace there
Where great occasions come and go
And praises fill the air.

But no one sees Him
Round the back
Behind the majesty
Being as He has to be,
If all be understood,
In everlasting's quiet pose
Waiting with the garden rose.

There is no dog or cup of tea
Nor even garden rose,
But just His patient loneliness
Beyond all sacred holiness
That seeks our amity.