A Song from the House of My Sojourning: In the Garden
I stood among other worshippers in the Sunday morning church service as the lyrics to this familiar hymn rose from our lips.
“I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses . . .” Immediately, I was drawn away by an unseen hand, it seemed, to the days when my boys were babies. I often sang that hymn over them as we rocked in my rocking chair beside the fireplace.
Hymns in particular, but especially In the Garden, hold a nostalgic pull. From the beginning strains to the ending lines, we are quietly drawn away to wooden church pews, our grandmother’s well-worn Bible, or a church we attended as a child.
I have often marveled over the lyrics to this hymn that celebrates the intimacy of our relationship with God, using the word picture of an early morning walk in a flower garden. Though the hymn often sends us immediately to simpler times and to people long ago, its lyrics hold a powerful message to each of us about prayer and what, in our modern vernacular, we call a quiet time.
The imagery of this hymn calls to mind another garden to which our souls long to return. It recalls Eden, where God walked with Adam and Eve in “the cool of the day”. (Genesis 3:8) It recalls the intimacy of an evening stroll in the verdant garden where God speaks deeply and tenderly to His own. Even though the perfection of Eden was lost, we can experience it in smaller measure each time we talk with God in prayer, and each time He speaks to us through His word, the Bible.
I come to the garden alone,
While the dew is still on the roses,
And the voice I hear falling on my ear
The Son of God discloses.
And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.
When my boys were babies, this hymn was often on my lips. In the half light of early morning, I too, came “to the garden alone” at my kitchen table. He and I often met over an open Bible, strong black coffee, and with my heart eager to hear His voice arising from the pages of Scripture. He did speak, and the stunning wonder of God speaking to me, a mere human, through His word happened at my kitchen table. The tender mystery of His spirit igniting the truth of His word within me as I read was indeed so sweet that it seemed the birds would silence their songs in holy reverence.
The closeness of those early morning moments stayed with me throughout my long days and short nights of caregiving. Through the constant presence of His word within me, He was closer to me than my own breath; He and I were continually speaking and listening to one another. From our quiet moments together in the early morning until I slumped battle-weary against His chest late at night, He was with me—my Lord, my Savior, the tender and ever-present Lover of my Soul.
He speaks, and the sound of His voice
Is so sweet the birds hush their singing,
And the melody that He gave to me
Within my heart is ringing.
Like the moment we linger in the embrace of our beloved, breathe in the smell of his skin, memorize the fall of his hair, and the soft bristling of his beard, so is this moment. We know the day calls us forth, yet we desire to linger a moment longer in His tender embrace and in the holy stillness:
I’d stay in the garden with Him,
Though the night around me be falling,
But He bids me go; through the voice of woe
His voice to me is calling.
And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.
The beauty of His tender presence is that it stayed with me. Yes, there were those tender moments when He whispered His love over me, but, wonder of wonders--He stayed. He stayed, continually speaking and listening. The depth of our friendship blossomed, and I found myself living in that tender space where He walked with me, and talked with me, and told me I was His own. My circumstances were heavy and heartbreaking, yet it was made bright and holy by His presence.
As I folded laundry late at night, the Ancient of Days walked with me, and talked with me,
Over the kitchen sink, He told me I was His own.
As I sat in my rocking chair near the fireplace, brushing my cheek against the softness of my baby boy’s head, tears often slipped down my cheeks as I crooned these lyrics over my son. My mind flitted to the early morning stillness and His tender presence. He was near once again as I sang and rocked. I pressed myself into His embrace; His words washed over me as I breathed Him in once more. As I carried my sleeping son to his crib, breathed a grateful sigh, and slipped away to the kitchen, His presence remained. I leaned into Him as I washed my dishes, scrubbed the floor or prepared dinner. I often just worked in His presence and felt Him near. I was living out my mundane days “in the garden”.
It remains a wonder to me that God would bother to engage humans at all, let alone draw us tenderly to Himself. Yet, it is true. My prayer is that the next time this hymn rises to your lips, you will let Him draw you through the garden gate, past the nostalgia and into the quiet depths of the garden, where He walks with us, and talks with us, and whispers His devotion over us. I pray you will know the strength and tenderness of His embrace, and the fall of His voice within your spirit. I pray that you too will sit in His presence and freely say: “. . . and the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has ever known.”