We walk in the secret garden of God,
A holy and hidden place.
Yet here we walk - without restraint
As a privilege of His grace.
We rest among the flowers of truth
That for men of every age
Have yielded the fragrance of knowledge
And enlightened the eyes of the sage.
Oh! can it be that we're really here,
And allowed here every day,
To handle these lovely, living truths
As a child consumed in play.
Thank you, Lord, for privilege bought,
Which now, we take for granted
And think it normal every day
To smell these flowers you've planted.
P. Davis
