The Gates Before Us

Two gates there are before the soul,

Two ways the feet may take—

One paved in gold and hollow cheer,

One carved through trial and ache.

The wide gate calls with siren sound,

Its arch adorned and proud,

Where crowds in laughter spill like waves,

And vanish in the crowd.

The way is smooth, and well adorned,

The banners bright with song,

The journey lined with fleeting joys—

But leads the heart all wrong.

No guardrail there, no shepherd’s voice,

No lamp to light the land—

Just echoing of hollow dreams

That crumble into sand.

And still the gate swings open wide

To beckon every kind,

Who seek the easy, swift reward,

The favor of the blind.

They do not see the end ahead,

Where sunlight turns to smoke—

Where what was freedom turns to chain,

And every vow is broke.

Yet there—beside a hidden hill,

Where thorn and silence dwell—

A narrow gate stands weather-worn,

A path not marked too well.

No crowd stands there to cheer you on,

No chorus greets the soul—

But still it stands, a doorway small

That leads toward Heaven’s goal.

Its way is steep, its stones are sharp,

Its road is choked with care,

But winds through valleys deep with truth,

And climbs through mountain air.

The ones who walk this rugged path

Are few, and often tired—

But eyes like flint, and hearts like fire,

With holy hope inspired.

They walk not by the songs of men,

But by the Shepherd's voice—

They bear the weight of righteousness,

And yet in this, rejoice.

For though the journey strains the bones,

And storms may blind the view—

Each step is laid by sacred hands,

Each scar a passage through.

The narrow gate does not deceive,

Nor promise ease or gain—

But leads to life beyond the veil,

A world untouched by pain.

And those who find it walk with grace,

Though burdened for a time—

They reach a land of endless day,

A joy beyond the climb.

So choose, O soul, the gate you’ll take—

The world awaits your feet.

One path is broad and veiled in charm,

The other, rough and sweet.

One ends in fire none can quench,

Though gold the journey seemed;

The other leads through tears and thorns

To glory once but dreamed.

Let not the laughter of the road

That teems with throngs unwise

Entice you from the narrow trail

That climbs toward sacred skies.

For every step upon that way,

Though hard, is heaven-sent—

And at its end, the open arms

Of Christ, the Gate, the Lent.