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 straight garden plot I come to flower:
About your porch My Vine
Meek, fruitful, doth entertwine;
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 ever 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:
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