To take to the mountains is sure best of all.
For there the man learns.
There His Glory stands tall.
The valley is full of peacable ritual.
Repetitive practice seems glory to them.
But up on the mountain the harsh wind knows,
How to take a man’s life with relentless blows.
The valley is full with sounds of their begging,
“Forgive us our sins! Though we keep on forgetting.”
But up on the mountain there’s no time for sin.
The eyes of the climber are transfixed on Him.
Where is the glory on this shaded Earth?
Is it down in the valley; midst those born of mirth?
If you want to be honor, start climbing my friend.
Join Him up there where “THE AIRS” are too thin.
Go to him.
To the self,
To the norm.
Let Him show you His Glory.
By His Spirit . . .
The harsh things of Earth
Are the nestings of birds.
Let their claws bare you up
As you drink from His Cup.
Or stay in the valley.
Find your way with the men
Who think is quite kindly
To be masters of bending