Secret Gardens

Secret Gardens

Why do I feel like I want to walk in a garden

Draw in the elusive fragrance of dew soaked earth

Haunting perfumes of fresh open buds

Wisping and weaving intangible rainbows

Blown in on teasing zephyrs

Caressing and lifiting the locks for a careless moment

Light as a butterfly

Then drifting on to invigorate another weary heart.

Today my heart rebels against being in a concrete jungle. True, as I look out of my windows I see more greenery and flowers than most urbanites are privileged to see. True, in my life I have been privileged than many people to visit beautiful gardens. I am trying hard to be satisfied. I am trying hard to be grateful. I am trying hard to be contented.

Whispers of past gardens

Steal out of dusty memory boxes

Stored sunshine and smiles

Teasingly tweak the toes of discontent

And ruffle longings awake.


Eden – perfect, complete, perfect shalom

Flaming swords blocking the path

Lonely longing.

Nebuchadnezzar’s famed hanging gardens

Pride, pleasure-seeking, luxury

Cloaking bitter oppression and tyranny.

Gethsemane – sleeping friends,

Gnarled olive trees bear mute witness

Drops of blood, a gut-wrenching act of worship

Father, Your will…

The garden of tombs, a stone rolled away

An empty tomb, a weeping woman

A Saviour who pauses and turns

To comfort, for in the heart of a worshipper

He found a garden

To delight and refresh His heart.

One thing I love about Munich is its hidden gardens. When one walks down the streets, it often seems one is walking past continuous blocks of buildings, without even a gap to separate them. Quite dull, regular and boring. Till the summer showers arrive. Then suddenly the air is full of elusive perfumes of flowers and herbs. In the beginning I was really puzzled how that could be since there was not a single flower in sight. Then I discovered that those sternly beautiful facades hid courtyards which housed lawns and gardens. Private. Hidden. For the secret pleasure and delight of the residents. Others are shut out. Till the rain and breezes reveal the hidden gardens beguiling and delighting the passerby.

Sanctified. Set apart. Consecrated. For the Master alone. Yet perfume spills forth to bless others.

My bride, my very own, you are a garden, a fountain closed off to all others.

Let the north wind blow, the south wind too!

Let them spread the aroma of my garden, so the one I love may enter and taste its delicious fruits.

Song of Solomon 4:12, 16