GOD’S HAND & the Angel of Joy & Beauty at Work at their Finest!

I was looking at Mike my lovely window cleaners photograph collection last night and this one (as many of them for that matter!) leaped out and just hit me, the sheer beauty of GOD at work within it, created by the great universal ARTIST’S HAND. It was taken at dusk at Stourhead House and Gardens now owned by the National Trust.

As the pre-Adamic Tuesday Morning Essene Holy Communion Prayer states:

“Angel of Joy descend upon Earth, pouring forth Beauty and Delight, to all the Children of the EARTHLY MOTHER and THE HEAVENLY FATHER.”

Stourhead Gardens 2017_15776951_355435271479057_7901897344528019724_o

(Photograph Copyright of Mike Jefferies © 1st. January,2017 .)

A poem of my late Grandfathers shortly afterwards fell out of a sleeve that I hadn’t seen since having moved to Glastonbury six years ago when I was looking for something for my book illustrator which then seemed very apt to this image. People that know me and the way that Spirit led events happen in this house constantly will know what I’m talking about here. Enjoy!

The Glory of the Garden

OUR England is a garden that is full of stately views,
Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,
With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by;
But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.

For where the old thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall,
You’ll find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all
The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dung-pits and the tanks,
The rollers, carts, and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.

And there you’ll see the gardeners, the men and ‘prentice boys
Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise ;
For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,
The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.

And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,
And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows ;
But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,
For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.

Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing:-” Oh, how beautiful,” and sitting in the shade
While better men than we go out and start their working lives
At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives.

There’s not a pair of legs so thin, there’s not a head so thick,
There’s not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick
But it can find some needful job that’s crying to be done,
For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.

Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,
If it’s only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;
And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden,
You will find yourself a partner In the Glory of the Garden.

Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees
That half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees,
So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray
For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away!
And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away !

Peace be with you.
Rev. Sister Dominic

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