The Narrow Gate

For narrow is the gate, and few arrive,
the rector’s glass reflects the candlelight;
yet still we keep our lists of who may thrive.

I pass through rooms where donors softly strive
to name the chapel wing, to set things right—
for narrow is the gate, and few arrive.

A porter nods; the brass and oak contrive
an air of grace made visible, polite;
gated by weathered lists of who may arrive.

The camel lingers, patient, still alive,
outside the needle’s eye, to rest for the night—
for narrow is the gate, and few arrive.

“America my nation”—we derive
our dwelling places trimmed in linen white;
to look upon our works, not merely to survive.

“Heaven my expectation”—so we drive
past gates that close as if by sacred rite;
for narrow is the gate, and few arrive,
yet still we keep our lists of who may thrive.

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