It was our gardener I first saw
Spread out his mat and kneel to pray
Close down beside his onion bed.
He'd worked right there since early dawn
And now had come the time to pray
And so he knelt there
Holding out his hand to God
In humble supplication.
How right it seemed to pray
With soft, brown earth
Small green shoots
And well worn trowel close by.
The words he murmured were as old as his
Every word must be exact.
So many time must bow and touch his head
So many times must stand,
Until, at last, he finished
Put his mat away
To weed the onion bed.