Past the ivy-covered windows of. The Angel. Down Athenaeum Lane to the cathedral. Through the churchyard I wandered. Sat for a spell there and I pondered. My back to the gates of the garden. My back to the gates of the garden. My back to the gates of the garden. Fugitive fathers sickly infants decent mothers. Runaways and suicidal lovers. Assorted boxes of ordinary bones. Of aborted plans and sudden shattered hopes. In unlucky rows up to the gates of the garden. In unhappy rows up to the gates of the garden. In unlucky rows up to the gates of the garden. . Won't you meet me at the gates. Won't you meet me at the gates. Won't you meet me at the gates. To the garden. . Beneath the creeping shadow of the tower. The bell from St. Edmunds informs me of the hour. I turn to find you waiting there for me. In sunlight and I see the way that you breathe. Alive and leaning on the gates of the garden. Alive and leaning on the gates of the garden. Alive and leaning on the gates of the garden. . Leave these ancient places to the angels. Let the saints attend to their keeping of the cathedrals. And leave the dead beneath the ground so cold. For God is in this hand that I hold. As we open up the gates of the garden. . Won't you meet me at the gates. Won't you meet me at the gates. Won't you meet me at the gates.