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 blade of 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 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 bright brown eyes
That peep from out the brake, I stand confest.
On every nest
Where feathery patience is content to brood
And leave her pleasure for the high emprise
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 (1875-1941).