By Elizabeth S. Gunnell
(In memory of Brother Gustave Hirt,
Salt Lake Temple gardener,
who passed away suddenly on an April day.)
He shepherded each tiny plant
With loving tender care,
And flower-children in gratitude
Shed beauty everywhere.
Within those sacred, hallowed walls
He felt the breath of God;
Forgotten were the cares of day
While hands touched holy sod.
His gentle step, his quiet mien,
His lips that ne’er spoke guile
Invited great and small alike
To stop and rest awhile.
At eventide he placed his tools
In their familiar place,
The shiny trowel, its handle smooth,
Of dirt showed not one trace.
The Master Gardener saw his work
And fondly called him home
To care for fragile, lacy blooms
In dew-bespangled loam.