The Narrow Gate

Two gates rise at the parting of the ways,  

one flung wide beneath a tempting sky,  

its arch carved broad with promises of ease,  

inviting throngs to pass unburdened by  

the weight of choice, the cost of turning back.  

The road beyond spreads spacious, smooth, and bright,  

lined thick with pleasures blooming day and night,  

where laughter rings and every step feels right.  

Crowds surge along its level, sunlit track,  

drawn by the clamor of the multitude,  

each traveler certain that the path is good  

because so many walk it side by side.  

No narrow strait confines their stride; they glide  

toward horizons gilded with delight,  

yet shadowed at the end by endless night.

The other gate stands small, half-hidden low,  

its frame austere, its threshold worn and plain.  

Few pause to notice where the wild vines grow  

around its edges, few endure the strain  

of stooping low to enter through its door.  

The way that opens after is constricted, steep,  

flanked by sharp stones that wound the careless feet,  

and thorns that tear at every robe they keep.  

Here progress comes through labor, breath by breath,  

through nights when stars seem cold and hope grows dim,  

through valleys deep where shadows swallow hymn  

and summits rise to test the heart's own death.  

Yet on this path the air grows pure and thin,  

and distant light begins to break within.

The wide way whispers comfort to the soul,  

"Come as you are, bring every cherished chain,  

indulge the hunger, satisfy the whole  

of what you crave—no need to bear the pain  

of self-denial, no demand to yield  

the throne of self to any higher claim."  

It offers crowns that rust, and joys that fade,  

and freedoms vast that end in deeper shame.  

The multitude applauds the easy choice,  

and calls the narrow road a cruel mistake,  

a relic of an age when men would take  

the harder burden for a distant voice.  

But every step upon that broad expanse  

draws farther from the source of true romance.

The narrow way demands the pilgrim leave  

behind the baggage gathered through the years—  

ambitions sharp, resentments that deceive,  

the glittering pursuits that feed on fears.  

It calls for hands unclenched, for eyes that see  

beyond the moment to the final shore,  

for knees that bend in secret agony  

and rise again to press on evermore.  

Its hardness is not punishment but grace,  

the chisel shaping stone to living form,  

the fire refining gold through fierce alarm,  

until the traveler wears the Savior's face.  

Though few may find it, those who do are known  

by love that bears the cross and claims its own.

O traveler, stand a moment at the fork,  

where breezes from two roads contend and meet.  

The wide gate gleams with every earthly spark,  

yet leads where light and life no longer greet.  

The narrow gate is humble, almost lost  

in undergrowth of doubt and worldly scorn,  

but through its straitness flows the endless cost  

of mercy purchased on a hill forlorn.  

Choose now, while daylight lingers overhead,  

before the shadows lengthen into fate.  

The many rush the broad and easy bed;  

the few press forward through the narrow gate.  

And there, beyond the toil and tearful fight,  

awaits the dawn of everlasting light.