Poems (Kimball)/In the Garden
For works with similar titles, see In the Garden.
THE GARDEN.
IN this still garden in the cool of day I often meditate:—Should He who walked in Eden come this way And consecrate This place of bloom with Presence passing fair And robes that make more sweet this summer air!
Anon a Voice far of yet near I catch And question,—Comes He now? The virgin lilies that for Him keel watch Do lowly bow, And the meek grasses lowlier yet to greet His soft approach and reverent kiss His feet.
But as for me who cannot see Him pass Yet fain would feel Him near, I bow me lowlier even than the grass, In love and fear; Far lowlier than the lilies on their stem, And through them press to touch His garment's hem!
More softly blows the summer wind to lift His mantle's sacred fold; Through all the place sweet sighs and odors drift Like bliss half-told; And in the fading west a single star Trembles with rapture watching Him afar!
And oh, that I should see that star remote Yet His near Glory miss Whereto the sun itself and stars do float As motes, I wis!But since no man that Glory could abide, How should I dare lament the sight denied!
Dark, hushed and dark, the garden round me grows, The folded flowers more sweet; I hearken long to hear Him where He goes With noiseless feet, Till the familiar place seems sad and strange, And Eden to Gethsemane doth change.
Through heavy silence falls the heavy dew Like sweat of sorrow wrung, As if the bitter cup were filled anew O'er which He hung, Whose Love all love transcending overcame, For us endured the Cross, despised the shame!
Albeit against that Presence passing by These mortal eyes are sealed, I see this Other, like Him, standing nigh, To faith revealed: At His dear feet on consecrated sod I cry like one of old: "My Lord—my God!"